


Our Brave Boys

by unknownsister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Military, Frottage, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, Military School, Teenagers, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John worked himself to the bone to get into military school. He meets Sherlock Holmes, who doesn't want to be there at all. Sherlock simultaneously insults him and turns his curiosity up to eleven, in mind and body. As if John doesn't have enough to deal with. </p><p>For johnlockchallenges gift exchange on tumblr - written for tea_britannia whose prompt was 'Military School AU.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Long bit of exposition here, bear with me. 
> 
> For the purposes of this story, John will be training to be a combat medical technician. If he were actually going to train to be a medical doctor and then get into the army, he would have to have already gone through medical training elsewhere, thus putting him above the age range I wanted for this fic. Combat medics go through basic training, then as they progress, they'll eventually be sorted into a commission for the RAMC. 
> 
> The boys are attending The Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in Berkshire, which requires a 48 week commitment from cadets before they are given actual military jobs. Approximately 270 new cadets are separated into platoons within companies, of which there can be up to ten. John is in the Inkerman Company because it's named after a battle in 1854, closer to when our original Doctor Watson was around :)
> 
> Please bear in mind, the most I know about military schools is from a friend I knew that went to one & that was in America. I've done as much research as I can to try and get this as accurate as possible, but there are bound to be reams of mistakes. We'll just think of them as bending to the reality of the fic. Also, tried to britpick this myself as much as I could, please point out any errors. Ages will be revealed in coming chapters, but they're late teens/early twenties.
> 
> This will be posted in four parts. Parts two and three are finished, but four is still being worked on & I wanted to go ahead & get this gift up before the deadline. So let me know what you think & I hope you like this tea_britannia!

John Watson is going to die.

It's raining, of course. The mud sucks at his boots until he just wants to lie down and let it consume him. He doesn't think his officer will notice – she's too busy screaming at the stragglers in the line. John's maintaining an average position in the middle of the platoon.

But since he's dying, he feels that maybe he won't be holding this position much longer. The 15kg backpack is attached to straps that dig further into his shoulders with every lunging step. They are 15 km into a 20 km training run and John ponders on his choice to actively pursue a military career as the wisest course of action.

He fought very hard to be here, even if it he hadn't envisioned rain and muck being part of his military dreams. He would never dare open his mouth to loose a complaint. He'd be damned before he did.

The cadet in front of him drops like a stone. John promptly falls over him, skidding his face a few centimeters in the mud while the rest of his troop dutifully goes around them.

"Watson, Stamford! On your feet!"

John hops to his feet, nearly overbalancing with his heavy pack, but Stamford struggles to gain his footing. He wobbles uncertainly before crumpling back to his knees. John watches the platoon leaving them behind and makes a decision.

He drops a hand on Stamford's shoulder.

"Be right back, mate. Stay still."

Stamford's white face nods quickly and John trots to his head officer as fast as his tired body allows.

"Sir! Stamford is injured. Requesting permission to escort him to the infirmary."

His officer throws him a stern eye, weighing John's blank face and Stamford clutching his ankle a few yards behind them.

"You'll be doing the rest of this run later, plus an extra ten kilometers, if I find out you're lying."

John stands still.

She nods sharply and John jogs back to him as she leaves to bark more orders.

"Come on, mate. Up you go. Lean on my shoulder here."

Stamford puts his weight on John gratefully, favoring his right ankle. They begin a miserable slog towards the infirmary, wet fatigues hanging at odd angles as more rain pours from the sky. John thought he was going to die before, but adding Stamford's extra weight, plus another backpack to support...

"My name's Mike, by the way. Stamford."

John nods.

"All right, Mike. I'm John Watson."

"Wish we could have met in better circumstances. I think this is going to be quite a nasty sprain. Possibly a hairline fracture."

John swivels a little to peer at his new acquaintance.

"Medical track?"

Mike grimaced.

"Yeah, you too?"

John laughs and shifts his pack as they continue.

"Me too. Though now I'm wondering if I'll ever make it through this basic training to get to the good stuff."

Mike huffs and John hears the smile in his voice.

"I'm still not sure how I even got in here. Only 270 applicants from all over the world get in each term and they chose a fat tosser like me."

John considers the boy leaning against him. Mike is certainly not overly fat by any means, but the baby weight has yet to fall from his face. One has to be pretty physically fit just to get in. He looks around 18 years old, a normal new recruit age. John himself is not a natural runner, but he makes up for it with stubbornness and a lifelong enthusiasm for sports. He hides the kernel of guilt he feels about his earlier internal complaining - Mike is probably having a much worse time of it. He looks like the type to have been struggling with heaviness all his life.

"Must have scored well on all those bloody tests they gave us."

"There is that. If I wasn't sleeping, I was studying."

"Why didn't you just stay on track for medical school?"

"Oh. Well. Doctor's offices are boring, aren't they? I'd much rather be in an active environment, doing the most good where I can. Not wiping up runny noses."

John considers how alike he and his new companion are before answering.

"I've heard the A+E is not that boring, something new every night. But I know what you mean. In fact, I know exactly what you mean."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I know other cadets are here for blood and battle, but there's got to be someone there to clean that up, right?"

Mike chuckles as the infirmary comes into view.

"Personally, I'm in it for the retirement plan."

 

oOo

Mike's diagnosis ended up correct - a fracture.

John had left him to the nurse after depositing him in the waiting room, promising to drop by later during his free hour.

John comes into the wing to find his new friend grimacing over the bulky plastic boot the nurse is affixing to his wrapped foot. Mike props himself up on crutches and nods at John, pain making sweat bead on his forehead. He smooths his hair one-handed while the nurse writes on a clipboard.

"You're just in time, Watson. Looks like I'll be bunking here for a while. They have to put me on the invalid list for a while."

He looks vaguely relieved at the news. John doesn't really blame him.

"So, new digs for you, huh?"

"Yeah, room service and everything."

The nurse laughs and helps Mike into his new single bed dorm.

"Remember your medicine, Stamford. Welcome to Lucknow Platoon."

She leaves the boys to it.

John settles in the only chair in the room, belonging to a small metal desk in the corner. Mike drops like a stone to the military issue bed a few feet away, pulling his foot gingerly to rest atop it.

He gets comfortable while John looks around the small room. A nice window, but still very small and concrete. It feels too much like a prison for John. He'd take the almost unbearable sound of 30 boys snoring at once in his own platoon before he'd bunk down here.

"You'll be back-termed, then?"

Mike sighs.

"Looks like it. Just for this term. I'll be able to start afresh in January. Do the whole bloody five weeks of basic training all over again. I'm stuck here though, no going home. I'm to start on our bookwork that we'll be doing next term, if I want to stay."

John watches the resignation settle into Mike's face and doesn't think the other boy will stay at Sandhurst. He avoids the topic.

"At least you've got your own room now."

Mike looks around the ceiling and then jerks in pain as he shifts his foot without thinking.

"It could be worse."

John opens his mouth to agree but they both startle as a door close to them slams and echoes around the concrete.

The slap of heavy footsteps washes down the hallway and a tall boy pauses in front of the open door to Mike's room.

The boy is clearly livid about something - the source of the slammed door. He's taller than John or Mike, too skinny. He fills out the black slacks, if only because it looks like he ordered them a size down. He's wearing a standard issue olive green jumper with regulation white collared shirt underneath, no tie. His curly dark hair stands on end where he recently pushed the fringe up in frustration.

But John notices his strange face the most - wide cat eyes, weird nose, not much of a chin, the hint of fine bone structure, if he could just grow into his face a little more. He takes it all in within seconds while the boy slants them a look that would freeze boiling water.

He's there for a breath of an instant and then continues stomping down the hallway with malicious intent.

Mike lets out a little laugh.

"Well, he seems like a cheerful fellow."

 

oOo

John brings Mike his homework and visits him when he can. They chat for a few minutes while John updates Mike on his old platoon and how hard they're pushing the boys and girls who can still get up in the morning.

John ruffles his short hair and rests his elbows on his knees, shifting on Mike's bed. Mike scrubs his eraser over his maths again.

“I just don't see why it's so important for our toothbrushes to be a certain centimeter apart. Especially when I'm so bloody tired, I usually just forget to brush my teeth anyway.”

“Yecchh, not on, Watson!”

John laughs and thunks his head against the wall.

“Yeah well, we can't all be in nurse paradise, can we?”

Mike was still in his boot. It had only been a week or two since he'd fallen and John could tell he was going a bit mad in Lucknow. They'd given him crutches to practice with.

“Nah, all the cute nurses are being sent to the front lines. Nothing left for us poor cadets.”

“I suppose they deserve them out there more than us.”

They chuckle and Mike turns back to his homework with an 'ah!', figuring out what he was doing wrong. John thinks about his quickly dwindling free hour and how badly his body aches. He puts his hands flat on the bed to lift himself up and freezes.

The boy from down the hallway stands in the door, watching him. He looks the same as last week, maybe calmer. The hair is slightly less wild, but only just. He says nothing, just watches John.

Mike turns to speak to John and jumps when he sees the boy.

“Oh! Sherlock, I didn't hear you come in.”

Sherlock doesn't even glance at Mike. John feels like he's in a staring contest to the death. He's not even sure why. He shakes his head slightly and looks to Mike, still feeling those eerie eyes on him.

“Watson, this is Sherlock. He's in the room next to mine.”

John stands and holds out a hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

Sherlock brushes past John to take his seat on the bed. John turns, stung, but leans against the doorway to prove he's above it. Mike seems to notice nothing.

“Sherlock's been visiting me the past few days. He found out I'm a bug collector, but I'm still not sure how he knew that.”

He gives Sherlock a slightly befuddled look which Sherlock continues to ignore. John is steadfastly not looking at the weirdo. He feels pinned by whatever Sherlock is doing, his individual parts being categorized with each flick of the other boy's eyes. He lets it go on a few minutes more before he clears his throat.

“Well, I've got to be off, Stamford. Trumpet at five hundred tomorrow. Nice to meet you, Sherlock.”

Mike waves goodbye and John thinks he's imagining the small smile on Sherlock's face when he leaves.

What a rude bastard.

 

oOo

“I think he might be hiding out in my room.”

Mike speaks to John three days later. They're on the common, watching a group being punished with pushups. John is relacing his boot. Mike is grateful for the fresh air.

“What do you mean?”

Mike pushes his glasses up and looks uncomfortable.

“Well, I just think maybe he needs some place to go besides his own room. I've heard other lads in the hallways looking for him sometimes. They don't really sound that friendly. He always closes the door behind him when he comes in.”

John finishes and sits up.

“He can't be that bad if you tolerate him.”

Mike laughs.

“Oh, I can see where people might hate him if they found themselves on the end of his wit. He lacerated me the first time we spoke, but you know I'm not bothered by much. I told him he could leave or stay if he wanted to, neither would bother me. He just stood in my door while I read and then sat down without me telling him to.”

“What do you mean 'lacerated'?”

“He told me I was an only child and how my dad had spent all the money in my trust fund and how I wasn't going to stay through the term because of the way I tied my shoes.”

“Sounds like a right knob.”

“I tell you that I wasn't very bothered because he didn't seem... spiteful. He sounded like he was stating facts, like he didn't know how to start a conversation with me. When he sat down, he just started talking about bug collecting. I asked him some questions and he said he knew I was an enthusiast. It's hard to find other boys our age that like that sort of thing, so I forgave him.”

Mike finishes with a shrug.

“What's he doing in Lucknow anyway? He didn't look wounded to me.”

“I'm not sure. I don't think he's here by choice.”

John had heard of that sort of thing – boys going to Sandhurst because it was familial, an honor thing. But it was so difficult to get in, John can't imagine someone attending without having at least a small sliver of enthusiasm for the military. Maybe Sherlock's family was rich? He looked the part.

“What makes you say that?”

“We don't ever talk about anything personal. Well, I say that, but he's parsed out every detail of my life... But, what I mean – he seems unhappy. Maybe a bit lonely. I'm not sure.”

John hums noncommittally and Mike turns the conversation to something else. John imagines being forced to live in a place as exhausting as the academy and thinks he'd probably be dreadful to be around.

 

oOo

John starts to suspect Sherlock is hiding out in Mike's room, too. Every time he drops by, Sherlock is perched on Mike's chair, birdlike, as he watches Mike try to walk across the room without his crutches, or staring out the window while Mike talks about football.

Sherlock never engages with John when he tries to speak to him and eventually, John just starts talking to Mike. They're never rude to each other, but John is content to ignore him if that's what Sherlock sees fit to do to him.

But John knows that Sherlock talks to Mike. Mike has all sorts of wonderful stories about Sherlock dissecting the nurses' personal lives by their perfume and recounting in extreme detail chemistry processes, which they both find interesting.

“He's like a bloody walking textbook,” Mike had said.

Why didn't he want to speak to John?

He tries to tell himself he's not bothered by it, but it keeps nagging at him like a bad tooth he can't help wiggling. Has John done something rude? Of course not, he's been nothing but polite. He even tried to get him to talk more than once, so that can't be it.

He swings himself over the top of a lattice work of rope knotted together. He should have a single-minded focus about this (he's only got a week and four days left of basic), but what if he won't talk to John because he doesn't like the way he looks? That's just about the only thing left since they haven't spoken to each other.

He smacks a hand on the top of his helmet as he hits the deck, wriggling on his belly, underneath the wire roof of his next obstacle. He watches his fellow cadet's mud-caked boots shuffling in front of his face and tries to not to let his last thought bother him.

John's never been tall and he's beginning to suspect that's going to be the case for life. But he certainly doesn't think he's ugly. He even had some girls express interest before he became so focused on getting into Sandhurst. He was working on coming to terms with his nose. But he wasn't spotty, or too awkward.

So Sherlock can fuck right off, John thinks as he leaps to his feet again, shuffling his pack as he takes off for the home stretch of his course. Next time John sees him, he'll _make_ Sherlock talk to him. He can't let this keep bothering him, because who cares?

John doesn't. Not one bit.

 

oOo

He works himself up two days later when he gets a chance to visit Mike again. John is definitely an interesting person and he is going to be so damn sparklingly brilliant and Sherlock is _going_ to talk to him.

He's not sure about what yet, but John has always thought better on his feet anyway.

He deflates as soon as he reaches Mike's room and neither Mike nor Sherlock are there. He crosses his arms and counts to ten before he sighs and turns to leave.

He runs smack into Sherlock.

His forehead hits Sherlock's chin, cracking both of them backwards painfully. John curses and Sherlock works his jaw, glaring at John.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Yes, well, it was your fault.”

John is so startled by his voice he forgets to be angry.

“He speaks!”

“Of course I speak, don't be thick.”

Oh that is rather a nice voice, not what John was expecting. He figured Sherlock had already hit puberty, if his height was any indicator. But his voice hit some lower warm notes that John found pleasing to listen to, even if the bastard was insulting him.

“You've not given me much evidence that you're not a mute.”

“Where is Stamford?”

John takes a moment to look up at Sherlock, who has a bit of a weird nose, too. Like John's, but slightly better. John thinks his own nose looks sort of like a bulldog his Uncle owns. Maybe not that bad, but certainly not as good as Sherlock's.

He realizes Sherlock asked him a question after he looks up a little further to Sherlock's furious expression.

“What?”

“I said. Where is Stamford.”

“Fuck if I know.”

Sherlock pauses and John realizes they are standing a little too close together and takes a step back, boot scuffing the tiles. He absolutely does not fidget as the other boy gives him a quick once over and nods.

“You'll do. Follow me.”

Sherlock swans off down the hallway. John stands still for a moment and then walks after him.

“I will not! Where are you going?”

“You patently are. Just come along.”

Stupid long legs, Sherlock's already at the side door down the hallway, leading outside. He smacks his shoulder into the door jam as he swings the door open a little too dramatically. John comes very close to laughing, but has a feeling Sherlock would take it rougher than most, if his hunched shoulders are any indicator as he storms off.

John catches the door and follows him to the common.

 

oOo

“You know, I don't think I've ever seen you outside. Was beginning to think you were a vampire.”

“As much as I like blood, the body cannot properly digest it. Humans could be a self sustaining organism if we could all just drink our own blood and process it.”

John laughs. They're sitting on a brick wall that separates the common and the well-maintained public drive for visitors. Sherlock had shoved a hand in John's face from above when he was contemplating how to get up there. Now they sat side by side, John swinging his feet and Sherlock perfectly still.

“You're weird. And you would need fresh blood to maintain cell growth.”

“You're laughing. And if you drain it properly before ingesting again, it would technically have fresh oxygen attached and serve the same purpose.”

“You're full of shit! Of course I'm laughing, that's generally what people do when something is funny.”

“Most people don't find blood funny. What if I really was a vampire? I could be luring you into a trap to bite you.”

“In all this sunlight? Also, I'd like to bloody well see you try. Pun completely intended.”

John ignores the trill of happiness that surges in his chest when Sherlock gives him a slight smile.

“What are we doing up here anyway?”

Sherlock turns back to studying the grounds. Lots of cadets are out, training is over for the day and several are passed out under trees off to the sides, completely knackered. John envies them for a moment.

“You were going to force me to talk to you today anyway. We might as well do that out here.”

John blinks, then remembers he was supposed to be angry.

“How did you know that?”

Sherlock picks a loose thread on his sweater.

“You've been looking at me more and more in Stamford's room. Each time you come in, you are further agitated that I won't speak to you. You've been swiping your face increasingly at each meeting. I reasoned that a confrontation would occur soon.”

“Sounds like a convenient guess to me.”

Sherlock looks at him like he's stepped in dog shit.

“I do not guess.”

John shrugs and smiles. He sees Sherlock's confused look out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns to him, the other boy is looking across the common. He speaks to John again.

“Also, you were wrong.”

“Yeah, you don't guess, ok.”

Sherlock flutters a hand.

“No, not about that. Though you are wrong about that. I meant about you touching your face.”

John doesn't understand.

“You were worried that I wasn't talking to you because I find you unattractive. That is not the case.”

John's sure he's reaching unheard of levels of human confusion.

Sherlock slips a slim cellphone out of his trouser pocket and clicks it out of sleep mode.

“That should be enough time. Let's go.”

Sherlock scrambles very ungracefully off the brick wall and pitches unevenly to the ground. He smooths an agitated hand over his sweater.

“Hold up, spider-monkey!”

John's off the wall in one smooth leap, landed slightly crouched next to Sherlock. His strong leg muscles (thanks, months of basic) give him a perfectly balanced landing. He straightens and Sherlock looks blatantly impressed before he pretends he didn't and cuts across the regulation height grass.

“Slow down!”

John runs and reaches for the back of Sherlock's sweater. He nabs the olive material and it stretches before Sherlock whirls on him and smacks his hand away.

“Don't touch me.”

Sherlock is facing the sunlight and John gets a good look at his face for a second. A recently healed split lip and the greasy yellow of a fading bruise on his cheekbone, only evident under the harsh sun.

John jogs next to him again, as Sherlock has not slowed down. They start to approach other people, the outskirts of the main common, and heading towards the classrooms where lessons are conducted after basic.

“Hey, what happened here?”

John touches his own mouth and Sherlock's eyes lock to the point of contact before flicking away again.

“It's the reason we're out here.”

“What?”

Sherlock doesn't answer him. They reach the first sprawling future soldiers, dozing under a tree. The taller boy stands above the cadet until she stirs, disturbed.

“Fuck off.”

Sherlock points to the other girl sitting up and rubbing her eye.

“Your friend there has been purposely smudging your boots in the morning so you're under extra scrutiny instead of her. She's smuggling contraband cigarettes in and doesn't need the attention.”

The two girls rocket off the ground and start screeching at each other, half turning to yell at Sherlock, but he's already off and John is left behind. He sees them drawing their claws out and jumps after Sherlock.

“What the hell, Sherlock! What are you doing!?”

“Doubling my alibi.”

They come upon some more cadets and Sherlock sets them off with a similar quick, fire-starting statement before he strikes off again, leaving a gaggle of screaming teenagers in his wake.

By the time they reach the academic building, a storm front of anger is billowing behind them and John fears for his well-being. Sherlock smiles upon his work and John thinks it looks a bit creepy.

“Mind explaining?”

A window bursts above them, to the left. Glass showers down and Sherlock gets the creepy smile again, more than a little manic.

“As informative as this meeting has been, John, I must be going.”

Sherlock glides off, long legs coordinating for once, and John thinks he might actually grow into that walk eventually. God help anyone who stands in his way once he masters it.

 

oOo

John doesn't see Sherlock for another four days. But he certainly hears about what happened in the science wing – the whole academy does. Three older boys were tampering with a kit that didn't belong to them and set off a chain explosion that ruined all the lab equipment and blew out three windows. It was going to cost the academy a fortune to replace the state of the art microscopes and computers. The three were currently on suspension and under medical care.

John has the feeling that a certain lanky prick has something to do with the whole mess.

He cements that feeling when he's called to the Commandant's offices on the fifth day. It's early, 0700 – John is supposed to be finishing his morning run with rest of his platoon. He's only got four days left of basic and he'll be given a term break in which he plans to sleep like the dead.

He wonders if he'll make it to next term as he waits in the intimidating front office of the Commandant, all stiff leather chairs and low smooth marble tables. His secretary had said nothing, just waved to a chair after he had been called from his morning routine. His commanding officer had looked neither concerned or angry that he was being called in, so John wasn't sure if he was going to be in trouble or not. He worried all the way across the campus to the administrative buildings. By the time he jogged up the steps to the right office, dread took over as the main emotion.

Bloody Sherlock. If he got kicked out because of him, he'd wring that scrawny neck of his. Maybe throw him into a giant pit. He was going to lose the only thing important to him because of a boy he barely knew.

John keeps himself occupied with all the various ways to bring bodily harm to the other boy until he's startled by the secretary telling him he can enter.

The office is even more intimidating than the lobby, though John thinks it might be quite lovely if he weren't in such an agitated state of mind. It's a long office, with large windows lining the left wall from ceiling to floor. They let in enough light to see the mammoth mahogany desk at the other end of the room. John imagines the many mustachioed, distinguished Commandants of the past behind the desk, terrifying cadets all the way back to the 1800s.

But John has done nothing wrong. He straightens his shoulders and forces himself to show a confidence he does not feel in the slightest. He marches to the front of the desk and stands at pinpoint attention, getting his first real look at the school's headmaster.

John had seen him at the acceptance ceremonies, but since then, the man only made official appearances. He was older, probably around sixty or so, with the same plain olive jumper they all had, his tie tucked smartly into his crisp collared shirt. John is surprised to see a distinct lack of medals and stripes, though he supposes those ornaments might get stuffy to wear all day. The Commandant looks like he could be kind, lines edging his forehead and eyes that give him a gentler appearance than most of his commanding officers. But steel hides in his eyes and John stands straighter and stiller than he ever has before, gaze lifted to the ceiling.

“Good morning, Watson. How is your training?”

“Very well, sir.”

“I hope you're finding Sandhurst to be a good fit.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“That's good. I like to hear my cadets are happy. Do you know why you're here, Watson?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah, but I rather expected you to have sharper ears than that, soldier. Your IQ test shows you're quite the thinker. If even the slowest of cadets are gossiping about last week's show in the science wing, I suspect you have at least a small inkling of why you're here.”

“I don't like to participate in gossip, sir.”

The Commandant chuckles and pushes back his enormous leather chair from the desk. He comes around to lean back on his desk, arms and ankles crossed. John tries to keep from looking at him. He wishes he had stayed behind the desk.

“Don't participate in gossip. I like that, Watson. All it does it rot the brain and pass time that could be better spent doing something productive. But I have called you here about that incident, cadet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Holmes here claims that you were with him the entire time the incident occurred.”

John jumps and looks to where the Commandant is indicating. Sure enough, there's Sherlock, skulking next to one of the windows. His arms are crossed defensively and he looks to have been staring out the window, but is now focusing on John. He scowls when the Commandant speaks again. John wonders if he knows how much nicer he looks when he smiles.

“Holmes laid out your afternoon for me. He says you spent your free time five days ago on the common... talking.”

John catches how skeptical the Commandant sounds. He wonders if he doesn't believe Sherlock's story, or if he disbelieves that Sherlock would be able to talk to someone for more than five seconds.

“That's true, sir.”

John risks a glance at the headmaster and sees the surprise. He hesitates.

“If Holmes is coercing you in anyway to say something untrue, Watson, I assure you, you'll not be punished for telling the truth.”

John prickles – he can't help it. What's wrong with Sherlock anyway? Well, he knows the answer to that. But really! Did the man have to be so rude with Sherlock standing right there? He was implying that Sherlock was a friendless bully. Which for all John knew, he might be.

But the boy he spoke with on the wall was … well, not personable, but funny. Sharp, but not stabbing. He was someone John wanted to talk with more, to figure out why John was so drawn to him. He doesn't feel bullied by Sherlock, though he's sure the boy has the capacity to twist anything on two legs into whatever shape he wants them to be in.

John gulps at his own choice of words. He looks to Sherlock and feels a pulse of sympathy.

His shoulders are drawn up, while he broods at the window panes again. He looks shuttered, already done with the situation as if he knows what the outcome will be. Sherlock has no reason to trust John, not really. John doesn't think Sherlock trusts many people, if his short time with the boy is anything to go on. He smothers the small flame of anger at the Commandant and meets the man's gaze when he turns back.

“Sherlock is my friend, sir. He's coerced me into nothing. We spent the afternoon on the outer wall of the common talking. I can give you the names of several students who saw us that day.”

The Commandant raises his eyebrows to his hairline and John can hear the master machinery of Sherlock's brain processing from where he stands. John admits his smugness to himself – if there's one thing he likes, it is to surprise people.

If John is honest, he really just likes to help people, especially near hopeless cases. And if anyone is at the brink of being unhelpable – it's Sherlock.

If John is even more honest with himself, he'd say he wants to test Sherlock until he can coax a full blown smile from him. He's sure it'd be brilliant. He buries this honesty as soon as it winks into life, but John knows that like an untended wound, these type of thoughts were going to fester until he couldn't sweep them under the rug anymore. But that was for later.

He salutes and clicks his heels when the Commandant releases him. He ignores Sherlock and makes the long walk out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

 

oOo

John thinks he'll never rid himself of the mud in his ears. He shoves his face once more under the shower spray, ignoring the ruckus of the line behind him. He has about a minute left before the next person starts bitching to get in and he wants to enjoy the lukewarm water as much as possible.

He gets a shove to the shoulder.

“Oi Watson, stop luxuriating. This ain't a bubble bath, get out!”

“Yeah alright, fuck off.”

John grumbles as he leaves the shower. That's the first thing he'll do on break. He's going to take five showers and then sleep then take another shower. For as long as he wants to.

He shuffles, cold, past the shivering line of stark nude boys, all waiting their turn for the shower. Six shower stalls for 30 boys – John doesn't see why they can't just build more. He supposes it's something psychological for drill training, though he's not sure what that purpose is.

Honestly, he's too tired to care. His officer had been pushing them so hard for the last few days, the last days of basic, that John doesn't think he could care about anything at all besides making sure his boots were tied and his bed regulation. He's starting to hear officers yelling in his sleep. So close to the end, he can't imagine giving up though.

He pulls up short when a towel is shoved in his face.

“John. We must speak.”

He knows the back of the line turned to look at him and Sherlock when they stop talking. Sherlock is the only person fully clothed in the room, with just the white button up, trousers and very shiny army boots. John doubts they've seen the training tracks at all, so clean are they. He accepts the towel and rubs it through his hair, disgruntled. He starts to walk towards the locker room to grab his toothbrush. Sherlock halts him by stepping in his path.

“Get out of my way. I'm a used up alibi. Why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

John doesn't like Sherlock's smirk one bit.

“Believe me, John Watson. You'd know if I had used you.”

John goes dizzy from a full body flush of embarrassment. He snatches the towel from his neck and wraps it hastily around his waist as he sees Sherlock surveying him. John resolutely _does not_ look behind him to the other boys and grabs Sherlock by the arm, yanking him from the room so he can punch him in private.

Midway to the locker room, Sherlock begins to use his arm to lead them away.

“Sherlock, my clothes, you fucking git!”

“I've already got them. Follow me.”

“What about my officer!?”

“I've already bribed her. I've got blackmail ready just in case. You won't be missed.”

They jerk to a stop in the empty entry way to the showers. A high shelf that John can only dream of reaching holds his clothes and shoes. Sherlock shoves the bundle at him.

“Dress. Quickly.”

John shakes out his jumper and pauses, glaring at Sherlock.

“Not until you turn around.”

“Surely you've been desensitized to nudity after weeks in the army, John. Just get dressed.”

John rolls his eyes and turns his back on Sherlock to get dressed, but thinks that might have been a mistake. He can _feel_ Sherlock watching him, lamplight eyes trailing up the backs of his thighs and over his arse like his lovely long fingers.

He dresses in record time and turns back to see Sherlock with a slight tinge in his cheek, but otherwise impassive. He completely ignores it and holds out his hand for his shoes. The other boy effortlessly grabs them from the shelf and John takes a moment while tying his boots to breathe deeply, calm down, assess. What is going on with him?

“John. Now.”

Sherlock is leaving him behind again. John's not sure who he's more annoyed with – Sherlock for leaving, or himself for chasing.

 

oOo

They're outside and John doesn't have his jacket. He's freezing. They're behind his platoon's building, closer to a handful of trees rather than than the squat concrete housing blocks. Sherlock just keeps dragging him further away while he loses feeling in the tip of his nose.

“Sherlock, stop!”

Much to John's surprise, he does.

He halts in the middle of the trees, far off lights barely lighting one side of his face dramatic blue. He looks like some fey woodland creature in a Shakespeare play John had to read in literature last year. When the other boy turns, John shakes the idea, maybe thinks he looks more like a devil. He waits for Sherlock to speak but they just stand there, blowing clouds of breath at each other.

“Your last name isn't Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns as if this is the most disappointing thing possible for John to say.

“It's very cold.”

“Let's just go around stating facts, John – water is wet, you're short. Are we done?”

“You blew up the lab.”

Oh ho, John likes that look on Sherlock's face. Slightly gobsmacked. Nice change from what he can tell is Sherlock's naturally scowly disposition.

“Why did you defend me?”

“Why did you blow up the lab?”

“Why did you def-”

“All right, no no, we're not doing this. You answer my question and I'll answer one of yours.”

“Fine. I wanted them gone.”

“The boys? What did they do?”

“I'm counting that as two questions.”

John puffs his cheeks out and stamps his feet, pissed off.

“Why did you defend me in the office?”

John can't look at Sherlock when he's studying him so closely. He looks off to the light, hanging over an empty parking lot.

“He was being a dick, wasn't he? Rude, right to your face.”

“Why should you care?”

“Ah ah, my turn.”

It's Sherlock's turn to cross his arms in a huff.

“ _Fine_. I stole their cigarettes a few weeks ago. They were frightfully boring and wanted to beat me up. Not that I couldn't have taken them.”

Sherlock sniffs and John is not sure he believes that Sherlock could have taken on the three very, very large army boys.

“They smashed my microscope and several delicate experiments I was running in lieu of not being able to find me.”

No surprise Sherlock was always in Stamford's. He wonders where else the boy hid on the campus. Come to think of it, he wonders where Sherlock sleeps. The boy always just seems to appear out of nowhere and vanish like a spirit.

“Then you made them blow up the lab.”

Sherlock fidgets, then stares John down.

“Yes.”

“Then why-”

“That last one was an implied question.”

“Like hell it was. It was an agreement.”

“Why would it matter if the Commandant was rude to me? I'm certainly not bothered by it. But you've talked to me for less than an hour and you put your name on the line for mine. If they find I'm responsible for unleashing what was essentially a chemical bomb on my fellow students – hypothetically, because it will not happen – you will be questioned in a much more uncomfortable set of circumstances than this morning. Answer me why.

John is suddenly overwhelming agitated. He didn't examine his own actions very closely this morning, went more with his gut feeling of what he knew was right when he answered.

“I have to go.”

“John, you will answer me.”

John turns to leave, not responding well to the unearned note of authority in Sherlock's tone. It makes him feel like a servant and John won't have it. Sherlock grabs him by his upper arm and sinks his fingers in, spinning John on his boot heel and gripping the other arm in the process. John wants to headbutt him. He settles for watching the puffs of their breath mingle as he tries to calm down. He meets Sherlock's eyes after he counts to ten.

“All right! I like you, you tall bastard. You made me laugh, I think we _got on_. I think we can be friends. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Is that your next question?”

John tilts his head, considering.

“Yes.”

Sherlock releases him, but remains standing close.

“I find it very hard to believe. There are people I need for small pockets of time then they use up their usefulness and I move on. Friends are the very definition of useless.”

John suddenly feels very sad for Sherlock and he knows his decision to stick by him this morning was the right one.

“What about Stamford?”

“Convenient hiding spot. Anyway, he's leaving in three days, he'll be irrelevant soon.”

“Then why are you telling all this to me? If I'm not to be your friend, you shouldn't care to explain yourself to me anyway.”

John sometimes wishes he could just keep his mouth shut. Sherlock goes very still and takes a step back, eyes glazing over for a moment. John's not sure where he retreated to, but he waits impatiently in the cold, expecting his extremities to freeze off. Suddenly, Sherlock whirrs back to life.

“Good evening, John. Your officer will be expecting you back now.”

John's stomach drops. He can't stop this before anything gets started. He feels on the cusp of something and it makes him nervous because he doesn't know what he's looking to happen.

“What! That's a cop-out. At least finish telling me why the lab blew up.”

Sherlock gives John one of those non-smiles. He thinks maybe it's something to do with the way the other boy's eyes crinkle a little at the corners. And since when is he thinking about another bloke's eyes this much? He coughs and squares his shoulders.

“I'm not going back to bed until you tell me.”

“Fine, yes – they were looking to ruin my new microscope. Well, I told them it was mine.”

Sherlock's grin is inhuman. John thinks he looks like the Cheshire cat with his teeth gleaming so.

“I bragged that since they saw fit to destroy my last piece of equipment, I had written home and had an even newer, more expensive set delivered to me from London. I might have set some very delicate chemicals in the Petri dish in the stand. And on some nearby microscopes.”

“It was the teacher's.”

“Of course it was, the fools. They lifted it to smash it, dropped the Petri dish and set off a rather colorful explosion that I have written down to be replicated later should I need it. It was quite a spectacular work of chemistry.”

“And you're so modest about it, too.”

“Shut up.”

John laughs and feels better about leaving the conversation here. He doesn't think Sherlock will let him pry anymore answers out of him tonight.

As he turns to head back to his barracks, a thought strikes him colder than the temperature.

“Sherlock, will you be here next term?”

The other boy nods.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's outfit was based on this photo - i.imgur.com/y0h7x.jpg
> 
> Sorry if you were reading this when I first posted. Some of my characters threw off the spacing & I had to change some things. 
> 
> Thanks for the kindness & kudos so far! Next part soon.

John wakes gasping. He runs a hand through his hair, damp strands sticking to his forehead. Lifting the corner of his sheets, he groans.

“God, not again.”

This is the third time this week he's had to wash his sheets. He knows Harry is going to notice soon and then the ruthless teasing will start. He vaguely regrets shacking up in her terribly cramped flat instead of the only other alternative, a hotel. He needed to save whatever money he could. Harry had already blown through her half of the inheritance, what little of it there was. John thanked whatever held the stars in place that he turned of age right before she finished racing through her own money, so she couldn't touch his half.

John knew this is not what his parents wanted for their daughter. He was at least trying to make something of himself.

He strips the sheets from his bed and thinks on his sister instead of why he needs to change the sheets in the first place.

His parents died when he was fourteen, six years ago. House fire. Not only had John lost everything he owned, but also half his family. He had been staying at a friend's house, while God knows where Harry was. Even then she was a firecracker, never listening. Now she was twenty-three and scraping the barrel in terms of her lifestyle. She had a waitress job that let her keep odd hours.

John never pushes her about it any more. Any time he does, she throws the army in his face.

“Jesus John, I know you want to get away from me, but did you have to join the fucking army to do it? Cornwall not far away enough for you, oh no. Have to go to bloody Afghanistan.”

Then she would leave, because she was a coward and never give John a chance to defend himself. He hated her at those times, when his temper hit solar flare levels and he had to take very long walks in order to remain under her roof. Thankfully, this time he only had to see her for three weeks. He even got her a Christmas present.

They could at least pretend to like each other and John was willing to try if she was.

Speaking of Harry...

He pokes his head around the door jamb and sees no sign of his sister. He knows the cafe where she works is not open yet, therefore she must still be out. John has no idea where she stays on nights when she doesn't go home in the morning, but he assumes she has someone on the side somewhere. The alternative of her passed out in the street is something he doesn't let himself think about.

He drops the bundled sheets next to his door and grabs his jeans, cramming his feet into his trainers before snatching up his bundle and racing down to the basement of the apartment building. Thankfully, the washing and drying area is clear of other tenants. A blessing and curse of his army schedule means John's natural clock wakes him at 0500 anyway, regardless of whether he wants to sleep or not. Not as many people around, but he really would like to get back to sleep. Maybe a nap later...

The slamming lid of the washer echoes around the damp basement and John hops backwards on top of the machine, ready to wait until his sheets are finished. The machine rocks and groans beneath him – it's probably older than he is. Once it soothes into a steady shake and hum, it starts to feel pleasant. Pleasant like...

John squeezes his eyes shut. He knows what happens to teenage boys. He knows from his own experience that he can bump into a chair and get an erection, something that he thought he had a better handle on now. Apparently, his body has other plans.

This is the third time to change his sheets this week, but certainly not the third wet dream he's had. More like one almost every night and John knows exactly what is causing them.

Dreams never used to be a problem. He rarely had accidents and always felt a twinge of gratefulness to his body for keeping that embarrassment to a minimum, as if puberty weren't awful enough as it was. But then again, his subconscious never really had anything to suppress before.

Now it's becoming a regular thing to wake up rutting the bed. He leaves his eyes closed as the images of the morning's dream come back to him so vivid, he swears they're more like visions.

It's Sherlock, spread on his stomach and looking over his shoulder, like that girl with the gorgeous bum in the dirty mag his mate lent him. Well, she'd been spread out on a polar bear or something else silly that took John right out of it. No, Sherlock would be on John's bed, maybe just out of the shower. He'd still have an amazing arse, if his tight trousers were any indicator.

John is so hard by this point that he's not sure how he's still sitting upright. He hasn't even gotten to the good part of the dream. He slides a hand over the zip of his jeans to ease the pressure.

In the dream, he can't really see himself, it's mostly about Sherlock, all that white skin spread out. John's fingers touch his shoulder and slide down his back, the other boy arching like a cat and groaning, much like John's doing right now. He pushes his whole palm over his erection, cracking his eyes for a split second to make sure he's alone.

He dives his hand into his barely unzipped trousers, melting backwards as he grabs his own cock. He imagines slender fingers instead of his own stubby ones. He presses hot kisses to a panting throat as he straddles Sherlock, rutting down into the other boy's palm.

John's never very clear about what he sees when Sherlock turns over, neither in this dream or any of the others. Obviously, he knows what a bloke looks like, if not from his own body, then from the plenty of other naked boys in his platoon. But he doesn't have this problem with any of them. He never looks on them with interest, except maybe to compare sizes in a passing thought kind of way.

Sherlock is totally different – he can't bring himself to imagine what he looks like, because he doesn't have any context. He's never had his own computer to scour porn, just what he could nick from others, but the focus was always on the girls. He's never looked at gay pornography, never really wanted to before now. This is new territory.

He squeezes himself and tries to imagine wrapping his fingers around someone else's cock. No, not someone else – Sherlock. He thinks about what it would feel like instead of what it would look like and his breath hitches, doubling the sensation by thinking of his own cock and Sherlock's and they're together and then Sherlock is moaning into John's neck, that voice!

John's spent. He climaxes almost painfully, doubles over before sliding bonelessly to the floor. He pulls his sticky hand out and wipes his hands on his jeans (he'll have to do his laundry again now anyway).

The buzzer on the washer goes off, scaring the shit out of him. John leaps to his feet, suddenly hyper aware of where he is, all fuzziness falling through the sudden pit in his stomach. He's still alone, he's relieved to find. He shoves his sheets in the dyer and heads upstairs to shower.

 

 

oOo

John washes quickly, but stands in the shower, feeling guilty.

He's can't quite put his finger on it, but he thinks maybe because he's never really got off to thinking about a friend before. Technically, he's Sherlock's friend – he's not really sure how the other boy feels about being his friend. The thought unsettles him, like Sherlock being able to read his mind about it and he leaves the shower feeling off balance.

Harry is still not home when John finishes. He dresses, putters around making some breakfast and drops to her mangy, second-hand couch. He's fairly sure he'll need a shower again after sitting on it. She doesn't have a telly, and John thinks maybe he'll go do touristy things today, museums and such. He doesn't think he'll be able to go back to sleep.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Puzzled, he pulls it out and flips it open. John rarely gives others his number, unless it's an emergency. He has to pay for each text – besides that, his phone is embarrassingly old. It's tough bringing out his old brick of a flip in the light of all those shiny iphones his mates have. The message is from an unknown number.

[+] What are your plans for this afternoon?

John sighs. He knew it wasn't for him.

[x] sry u hv the wrng #

[+] John! Use your vowels! That physically pained me to read such rubbish.

He stares at his phone for a moment, trying to think if he gave anyone his mobile recently. No one comes to mind.

[x] I hv 2 pay 4 each txt small words needed

[x] who is this?

[+] It's taken care of. You'll not pay for this conversation.

[+] What are your plans for this afternoon?

He's not sure what's going on. If he answers some serial killer hacker who's hijacked his phone, he probably shouldn't tell them what he's doing later. Although, if they can find his phone, they can probably find him.

He takes great care to type out his sentences fully, though it takes him much longer on the numeric keypad.

[x] My plans remain unknown unless I know who this is.

[+] Honestly, John.

[+] Work it out. Surely you haven't lost the use of your brain so quickly on holiday.

John scours his brain. So someone from school, they know he's on holiday. Stamford is already in his phone – besides they met up a few days ago. That condescending tone is familiar.

[x] Sherlock.

[+] A credit to Queen and country, you've solved it.

[x] How the hell did you get my number?

[+] Irrelevant. Cancel your plans. Come with me to the British Museum.

[x] Why should I, you creeper?

[x] You know this is the kind of stuff they put on police shows before they find the body.

[+] I don't watch television.

[+] Take a cab. Meet me there at noon.

[x] I didn't even know you were in London.

[+] Where else would I be?

[+] Say you'll meet me.

John sighs and looks around the dingy apartment. He mentally checks his bank account and figures he has enough for the tube, maybe some lunch.

[x] I'll be there.

 

 

oOo

John stumbles out of the Tottenham Court Road underground exit and blinks at the surprisingly bright winter sun. He walks past lunchtime businessmen and clusters of tourists, making his way to the grand steps outside the museum.

He sticks his hands in his pockets, suddenly uncomfortable in his civilian clothes. In his army threads, he doesn't have to worry about the state of his clothes, or how old his trainers look. But in his second-hand coat and muffler, he feels more than a bit self-conscious. He wonders what Sherlock will be wearing. Probably something unbearably expensive.

John also wonders why he agreed to this at all. In fact, it's probably one of the worst ideas he's ever had in his life. It was when he was already out of the flat and packed on the stuffy tube that he realized this might be a serious contender for worst idea ever.

He's been having vividly erotic dreams about the boy he just agreed to meet in a few minutes every single night. For the past two weeks. What was seeing him in person going to do? John fidgets with his gloves and is grateful for the cut of his coat, glad that it's bulky and oversized, better to hide any unwanted reactions. This whole thing was quickly getting out of hand for him.

Sherlock's the one he should be angry with, not himself. The other boy bloody well started it with that comment in the showers in front of everyone. John flushes a bit at the memory. But probably, Sherlock was using it to embarrass him. The other boy acted like John was the immature one when he refused to turn around and let John dress. That was the first scenario he dreamed about (Sherlock touching his back, John turns and he's undressed, too – then lots of undignified, dirty snogging, John is not above admitting) and John has already turned that situation into a million different filthy scenarios. Of course he thinks of every single one of them while he waits for Sherlock in the cold.

“You took the tube.”

Sherlock catches John's arm as the shorter boy swings around to punch him in the neck. John automatically twists out of the lock and holds Sherlock's arm behind his own back before he even realizes he's done it. The bastard had snuck up right behind John's ear and he did not take well to being frightened.

“I see your basic training has set in nicely.”

Sherlock is smiling and John releases him as though he were hot to the touch. He probably would be hot if John touched him. He curls his hands deep in his pockets.

“Don't do that.”

“Do what, John? I was just observing your mode of transportation.”

Sherlock still sounds terribly amused with himself, something that John is coming to see as a pattern. He also sees he was right about his guess in Sherlock's attire.

He looks devastatingly handsome and John can feel his brain cataloging every detail for later tonight. Whereas Sherlock usually looks a little awkward in his army standards (though he's never seen him in fatigues), these clothes look tailor made for the boy. They might actually be, John thinks with a hint of awe.

Sherlock wears a camel hair coat down a little past his narrow waist, the great wide collar popped. A deep navy vest is stretched tightly across his torso, an equally tight white button up open at the base of his throat. Navy trousers hug his hips and fall straight to light brown Oxfords that look like they cost more than Harry's flat. A dove grey scarf (makes his eyes stand out, cashmere) is thrown over the back of his neck, draping down both sides of the collar with the ends tucked into the coat.

He smells like expensive aftershave and cigarettes and looks like he just stepped out of the fucking movies and he's watching John with muted amusement.

John wants to go home. He tacitly does not look down at his own clothes. He does do what teenage boys are very good at – pretend this awkward situation is not happening, act tough, make a joke and generally avoid the topic.

“How does one go about getting mobile numbers from thin air? Oh wait, don't answer that – they go about it like a creepy stalker. You should have just asked me!”

“You should have just offered. But no matter. I have access to all sorts of information.”

“The evidence is stacking against you, Suspect No. 1.”

“Stalking implies a degree of stealth. I'm not hiding from you.”

“You're barmy. What are we doing here anyway?”

“They have a new collection of bones and I thought we might study them to see how their owners died.”

“Seriously, do you have a certificate or something for being creepy?”

“I joined a club. You're on medical track. So am I. This qualifies as research.”

John takes in that information slowly. He didn't realize that they were on the same track. He feels loads better when Sherlock slips a little on the icy steps, gangly and not in control of his limbs for a split second, and John thinks they're back on slightly level playing fields again. He definitely doesn't let Sherlock see him smile as they enter the beautiful building.

 

 

oOo

John spends the entirety of the museum trip making sure he alternately doesn't stand too close to Sherlock and stands close enough for him to bump into him. He agonizes, trying to listen to his brain (don't touch him) and his cock (grab him). As if his body weren't confusing enough already.

They walk through all the familiar exhibits, talking the whole way, and save the new one for last.

Sherlock is absorbed in the new exhibit and hasn't stopped his stream of observations since they entered the room. Ancient bodies lie curled around themselves in rags, their glass case homes softly lit by lights above. They stop at one near the center of the room. John slowly goes through the Latin names of the bones he can see, circling the case and leaving Sherlock's side to get a better view.

He gets caught up studying what looks to be an extra toe on the corpse before he realizes Sherlock stopped speaking. He looks up and sees the other boy staring at him through the case.

“Are you aware you mouth what you're thinking?”

John clears his throat and stands up a little straighter. Must not think about Sherlock looking at his mouth. He can see him smiling as he comes around the case to stand next to John.

“Tell me how she died then.”

Sherlock grins and launches into a detailed description of the woman's life, her age, her likely occupation, and several illnesses she suffered from. He leans closer to the case as he talks excitedly and never even pauses to draw breath as he lays out the woman's long gone existence.

When he finishes, he pulls himself and looks to John expectantly. John stares at the body for a moment longer before glancing sideways at Sherlock.

“Brilliant.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock looks smug and tucks an errant curl behind his ear. John must put a stop to all that.

“Of course, there's no way to tell if you're actually right or not.”

Sherlock turns on him.

“I used modern forensics techniques to catalog her details! I assure you if we find a curator - ”

“Yeah, you looked through a glass case. No proper examination. Not like I would really know the difference anyway. You could tell me she got shot through the head with a spear and I wouldn't be able to contradict you.”

“There's no hole in her head, she died from blood loss or infection due to an animal attack – look at her femur -”

John laughs and knocks his shoulder with Sherlock's, a wonderful shock curling down to his toes at the brief contact. His lungs still and his laughter quickly dies. Ah fuck, Sherlock noticed. He quickly changes the non-subject.

“I'm bloody starving. Let's get some food.”

Sherlock hums an answer and gives John one more searching look before turning to leave.

“I know of an excellent cafe down the street from here. We should be able to get a table inside.”

 

 

oOo

 

They settle at the cafe and while John orders a sandwich, Sherlock only orders a coffee that John can't pronounce. He watches the other boy get tetchy with the barista when she doesn't seem to quite know what he's talking about. He smiles and feels amused where he knows he should just think Sherlock a degenerate jerk. Rolling his eyes at himself, John looks out the window while Sherlock settles things.

“I may be proven wrong as to the quality of this establishment, John.”

“I'm really ok. I think I could eat out of a trough at the moment.”

Sherlock pulls a face as John's lunch is set on the table and a beleaguered waitress tries not to make eye contact when she sets down the coffee. John thanks her and digs into his sandwich when she leaves. He stops mid chew when he hears a loud grumble from across the table and sets down his food.

“Sherlock?”

The other boy is resolutely staring at the street outside, stone-faced.

“Sherlock, if you're hungry, you should have ordered something!”

“I'm not hungry.”

His stomach makes itself know again with an even louder gurgle. John covers his laugh.

“Oh come on. I hear you from here. Why aren't you eating?”

“I don't need to eat. I'm working on it.”

“You know this is a really pivotal development time for us to get enough food. You're what, twenty? Twenty-one? You've got a few more years yet to where you'll stop growing.”

“Eighteen.”

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock pronunciates too much.

“Eight-teen. I'm eighteen, not older. Like you.”

John flounders for a moment.

“You don't look eighteen. And what do you mean, older?!”

“I hit my growth spurt early. You're two years older than me. You were held back in, oh … I'd say Year Five.”

“You're a twat, it was Year Nine. I'm only twenty, don't make it sound like I'm close to retirement.”

Sherlock glares, something John is getting quite used to, so he glares back. But it doesn't seem to have actual ire. John even thinks he sees a little sliver of 'impressed' when Sherlock turns away. It's probably not often that Sherlock is talked back to. John lets himself feel smug for a moment.

“Medical track. You said we're on the same track. I'm guessing biomedical, as you have access to the chemistry labs. You do... have access there, right?”

“I'm on the bio track. But I could easily get in there if I wanted to. It's the least repulsive activity in that bedlam.”

“If you hate it so much, why are you at Sandhurst?”

“Not by choice, I assure you. You're a combat medic tech.”

“Well, not yet. But soon. Why aren't you there by choice? Churchill failed the entrance exam three times. It's pretty fucking hard to get in.”

“Not for some.”

“You mean some with money. Remind me not to invite you round to my sister's flat then. I'd have to get out the swooning salts if your delicate self saw the place.”

John reaches to grab some of his sandwich and finds half of it gone.

“How did you even do that? I've been watching you the whole time!”

Sherlock bites into the sandwich with a grin. John sighs too loudly, but he's not really bothered. He's secretly thrilled that Sherlock even wants to spend time with him. This is their holiday and Sherlock is choosing to waste it with him (even if he used the creepiest methods to find him, short of standing over John's bed in the dark).

They chew their food in silence for a moment before Sherlock starts again.

“Yes, it is easy for some with money. Which I do have. But also for those with connections.”

“Got an important dad?”

“No. You have an uninspiring sister who you haven't seen for two days.”

“It's like you've met her. I would be worried except she sends me a text at 4 AM sometimes. She's probably home by now, sleeping it off. You have any siblings, then?”

“A brother. He's... fat.”

John laughs loud enough to draw some attention from the cafe. He claps a hand over his mouth. Sherlock seems delighted with his response.

“That was not what I was expecting to hear about your brother.”

“I'm only stating the truth. He's irrevocably indulgent in food and stubborn as an ugly mule when he sets his sights on something. I hate him.”

Sherlock sounds childish, like he's said that he hates his brother since he was small. John wonders if the hate is a petty childhood feud crawling into adolescence for Sherlock.

“Did he go to Sandhurst, too?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

The way Sherlock says no makes it clear he's ready for a change in topic. John steers them towards football (Sherlock knows the name of every league, but doesn't know how to play), then politics (at length, as Sherlock makes a very convincing argument for theoretical anarchy) and then, because John is feeling spectacularly brave – girls.

“Got a girlfriend?”

Sherlock snorts. John hates the way he asked the question – awkward, stilted and not at all casual like he hoped.

“No girlfriend.”

“Oh, I thought with that porcelain skin of yours, you'd be beating them off with a stick.”

“I have no time for girls.”

“I thought that's all blokes our age did have time for.”

John gives the fakest laugh he's ever heard. So fake, it hovers around for a second too long and he wants to sink through the floor as Sherlock watches him squirm.

“I do have a very technical skin care routine.”

That's not really what John was expecting to hear either. He huffs.

“Yeah, I bet you wash in the blood of virgins to keep the spots away.”

“That's why I'm after you, John. But I've decided against using your blood. You're much more useful to me alive.”

It takes John a second to study Sherlock's face before what the other boy said sets in and to see he's not joking. Everything grinds to a halt as time slows down and he feels the tidal wave of embarrassment so strong, it leaves him nauseous. He thinks about trying to deny any claims about his sexual inadequacy, but he knows Sherlock would shoot him down in an instant. Then the fact that Sherlock said he's after him and the way he's folding his fingers under his chin so calmly, what a bastard.

As it stands, John is so busy trying to restart his heart that he doesn't notice their silence stretches for ages. Sherlock calmly plucks several large notes from his wallet while John remains frozen. He places a few smaller bills on the table and then slides his fingers inside of John's coat to tuck a few more inside John's trouser pocket. It was the pocket furthest away from him causing his arm to stretch across John's torso. John feels his chest restrict in adamant lust and pure panic for the way Sherlock's fingers touch his waistband lightly before pulling away.

Sherlock whispers in his ear.

“Get yourself a cab home.”

Then he's gone. John comes to with the waitress collecting his plate (Sherlock took the rest of his sandwich!). She gives him a concerned look and leaves again with their dishes.

He's so hard it's unfair and how the fuck does Sherlock even do that? His whole exit was so smooth, so spot on sexy, that he had to of practiced it. John comforts himself with thinking unkind thoughts of Sherlock awkwardly practicing in front of a mirror. No, Sherlock was likely born on a runway. He probably still looks gorgeous, even when he's out of his depth. Wanker.

John takes the tube home.

 

 

oOo

Harry is indeed at home when John gets back, passed out on her bed with her clothes from the last time he saw her. He rolls her onto her back, makes sure she's not dead, then closes her door. He leans against it for a moment and rubs his hand over his face.

As much as his sister gets into trouble, he needs someone to talk to right now. His parents aren't here. He lost a good deal of his friends after the house fire, as he and Harry moved to London rather abruptly. He didn't complain at the time – he didn't want to see the pity from his mates at school. He and Harry felt like allies then, them against the world in big bustling London. He focused on Sandhurst so hard that he never had time to make friends. He was doing ok at the Academy; put enough boys in close proximity and they were bound to bond over something. But none of them had really become someone close enough that John could talk to them about...

Well, about what?

John knew this wasn't the Dark Ages and it was okay for him to like boys. But he also did not have much experience with anyone, as Sherlock had so politely pointed out that afternoon. So how was he to know what he really wanted?

He smacks his forehead.

“Stamford!”

He goes to the living room and boots up Harry's ancient PC, crossing his fingers that Stamford is available to chat. He opens up Gmail and releases his breath when he sees a green dot next to Stamford's name.

[x] Stamford! Mate! How's the foot?

[+] Alright watson boot came off a week ago, just in time for xmas.

[x] A free man, must feel better

[+] Loads

[x] A free man in more ways than one. Gonna miss you at academy.

John had helped him pack his bag, sad to see his friend go right before the term break. He tried not to appear too disappointed, as they both knew Mike would be miserable if he continued at Sandhurst.

[+] Don't get sappy on me watson. But yeah, I kno – sorry I left so fast

[x] There one day and gone the next!

[+] I only had a day left to make up my mind.

[x] I don't think any less of you.

[x] Seriously

[x] It was a tough decision to make

[+] appreciate that. Dad thinks he knows someone who can get me into Bart's

[+] some intern stuff for summer and inbetween uni

[x] brilliant

[+] what about you? How's the holiday?

[x] could be better

[+] harry giving you a hard time?

[x] She couldn't care less what's going on. But I thought I could talk to you maybe

[+] anytime mate, what's happening?

[x] well

[x] Sherlock

[x] It's Sherlock

[+] what about him? Did you fight him yet?

[x] what??

[+] I thought you two were going to come to blows with the way you glared at him all the time lol

[x] no, no fighting, we might do yet tho

[+] what, have you seen him recently?

[x] yeah, he's in london too

[+] oh, I thought I told you that he lived there

[x] no!

[x] whatever anyway we had lunch today after we went to the british museum

[+] …

[x] what?

[+] you never spoke! How did you go from not speaking to going on a date?

[+] John?

[+] John look just answer

[x] I want to kiss him and I don't know what to do

[+] bugcatchermike is offline.

John feels his phone buzzing in his pocket and hesitates before pulling out. He'll pay for the minutes later, but right now, it's worth it.

“Hey, Stamford.”

“Bloody hell, Watson, warn a man, would you?!”

“I don't know who else to turn to.”

Mike lets out a staticky sigh through the receiver.

“Listen, I think you need to fill me in on some things. How did you go from glaring to wanting to kiss him?”

John jumps in and tells Mike everything, from the brick wall to the explosion to the shower and today, trying his best to lay out the raw tangle of his emotions and concerns. He feels exhausted by the end of it, even though it only takes him a few minutes.

“I've known him less than three months and I'm sick with how badly I want to kiss him. Fuck, I sound like such a girl.”

“You do at that. But listen, I don't think this is a bad thing. Why are you calling me instead of him?”

“This sounds like we're reading some shit script for a romcom.”

“Doesn't change the subject.”

“I dunno. I mean, wait, yes. I do know. Look at him! You've seen him! He looks like a bloody model – all those legs and that skin and those cheekbones.”

“That makes him sound like a monster.”

“You know what I meant, you knob.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You said he expressed interest though! He even said – what was it?”

“Well, he said I'd know when I had been used. Or he also said that's why he's after me.”

“Those are some pretty strong innuendos there, Watson.”

“God, but what if I'm wrong?”

“So what if you're wrong? At worst, he'll avoid you. There's hundreds of people at Sandhurst and it's a pretty big campus. You could definitely avoid each other. Or he'll say yes and … you'll do whatever it is blokes do to each other.”

John knows his ears are going pink at the thought.

“That's... also it. I'm not really sure what blokes do to each other either. I mean, I know what they do but I've not - ”

“You've come to the wrong tree for that kind of advice, mate. Sorry.”

“No, no. That's not what I'm asking of you. I'm just. Jesus.”

“What?”

“I haven't. I already said.”

“Oh, sex? With anyone?”

“He was right. I'm just... worried.”

“About what? People have sex all the time. I mean, I've heard it can get dangerous, but I'm sure you'll be fine.”

“Piss off. I mean, what if I'm not gay?”

“Do you want to not be gay?”

“Yes. I mean, no! I don't care about being gay, but I want to be sure, right?”

“Honestly, we're young. I think you've got time to figure it all out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see it as, well, a youthful fling. We've already established that you like blokes.”

“I guess.”

“You guess? Kissing usually implies you like someone. Have you ever wanted to kiss girls?”

“Yes! Normally. That's why I'm so confused. Sherlock's the first... boy.”

“Then you're probably bi.”

“Bi.”

“Yeah, bisexual, you like both. You might like blokes for a while then try some girls then settle on one or none. Plus, who cares? Go enjoy some action for those of us who aren't getting any.”

“Am I still talking to Stamford?”

“Yes?”

“I think you're going into the wrong field, mate.”

“What?”

“You should be heading into sex therapy or something. I feel loads better.”

“Oh God, your problem was easy. Think of all the nutters I'd get in a sex therapy job.”

They laugh and the conversation draws to a close with John thanking Mike and them promising to meet up again soon.

John thunks his head onto the back of the couch where he settled in for the conversation. His head feels lighter. Mike makes everything sound so easy, which he knew wasn't true, but he didn't feel like he was having such a crisis anymore. He shyly examines the idea of adding 'bisexual' to his internal identity list and finds that it wasn't as hard to accept as he thought.

“So you're gay.”

He cracks his feet on the coffee table when he jumps. He turns with his heartbeat in his ears to see his sister standing in the doorway, disheveled, but sober.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough to hear that you're gay.”

John is very quiet.

“Bi. Bisexual. I think.”

Harry comes around to the front of the couch and plops down next to her brother. She stares at him while he tries very hard not to stare at her. He picks at a loose thread on the couch until he has the breath knocked out of him. Harry squeezes him in a hug that cracks his spine and he's so surprised, he doesn't know what to do with his hands.

“Harry! What are you doing?”

“If you're gay, I'm okay with it, I'm fine. It's okay.”

Harry sounds like she's consoling herself more than him and John shakily pulls back a little in her embrace.

“You're crying.”

His sister wipes the tears from her face and gives him a watery smile.

“Yeah fuck off, girls can cry.”

“But why are you crying? I'm the one coming out here.”

He was still trying to get over the weirdness of his sister hugging him. They hadn't hugged since they saw the shell of their house collapsing.

“I'm just here for you, little man. That's what I'm saying. That's why I'm crying. I'm just. Here.”

John doesn't know what to say.

“I can say – all I'll say – Just know that I know what you're going through. And you can always come to me.”

He stares at her while she lets him process.

“You mean – you, too?”

“Well, I'm not bi. I'm more... just into girls.”

John starts laughing and presses his face into Harry's shoulder, even though she smells gross. He couldn't care less. He finally hugs her back and squeezes until she lets out a little breathless giggle of her own. She pets his hair and John puts aside her terrible living habits for a moment.

It feels like he has an ally again and it gives him the strength to prepare for the war front that is Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note about clothing. At the end of tactical training (around week 6), troops get their berets as a reward. At the end of week 19, after their infantry skills have been earned, they get a tie. Sherlock having neither is something of an alarm raiser to John, as they're like accomplishments you can wear. 
> 
> Also, the mental tests that John goes through are actually part of the application process for getting into the academy, but I thought I could fit them in better here. Another note about the bio-medical track for Sherlock - it's just about the only thing that would fit him at a military academy. They work very closely with the other medics, basically studying samples and blood, etc. under microscopes. 
> 
> Last thing, this is the first sex scene I've written in, hmm... a very, very long time. I gave it my best shot :) Please enjoy!

John adjusts his beret one more time in the mirror, sweeping his fringe to the side. He checks his teeth and then his trousers to assure no creases have mysteriously appeared before he arrives. New Years came and went without another word from Sherlock, despite John biting the bullet and using up every text he had for December. He used up a few for January, but since Sherlock wasn't replying, he saved them.

He wasn't sure what was going on, but he had been mentally shoring himself up for his return to the academy. But day after day with no response from Sherlock, he deflated, thinking maybe he had read all the signs wrong. He got turned on even at door knobs – what if he had traced his own desires over Sherlock's words?

No, there was no mistaking the way Sherlock had stuck that money in his pocket. That particular moment had been the shining star of John's wank reel for the last week and a half. In that fantasy, Sherlock edged his fingers over just a bit further and unzipped him right there in the middle of the cafe. He always dropped to his knees, right to the sticky floor, and John could feel the familiar pressure building just thinking about it.

He takes a few calming breaths. Won't do to return to school with a tent in his trousers. Grabbing his rucksack, John heads for the door. Harry left him some loose change she had for the tube and he has enough notes for a taxi ride the rest of the way to Sandhurst. He expects to arrive around the same time as most of his fellow cadets, but stuffed a book (John le Carré) in his rucksack just in case of unexpected delays. He locks the door behind him when he leaves.

There's a very expensive car outside the flat, but not flashy. It screams 'good taste' and John gives it less than two seconds thought before he starts off towards the tube. His hackles rise as the car is definitely following him and he marches straight up to the tinted window.

It rolls down to reveal Sherlock and John's thunderous expression snaps to complete shock.

“Sherlock.”

“Hello, John. Would you like a ride to Sandhurst?”

“What, in there?”

“No, in a hot air balloon. Of course in here.”

Sherlock emphasises his point by opening the shiny door and scooting to the middle of the leather bench seat. The other boy is back to his regulation clothes, though still no tie and he doesn't have his beret. He beckons impatiently for him to get in the car.

“Come _on_ , John. Get in.”

John stands on the pavement and jangles the change in his pocket, considering. He's already made up his mind to go with him, but John likes to see Sherlock get upset. He grins and hikes his rucksack up on his shoulder. Sherlock taps the back of the driver's seat and the boot pops open for John to put his things into. He swipes his beret off his head and twists it in his lap as he settles in next to Sherlock.

“You weren't kidding when you said you had money.”

“I don't often kid.”

“Bollocks. I've heard it often enough.”

Sherlock crosses his arms and John marvels how one person can be so sexy and completely un-sexy at the same time. Sherlock doesn't look like a grown-up any more, sans all his fancy clothes. He looks like a teenager again, slouching with his knees pressed against the seat in front. John wonders if that bothers the other boy, being stripped of his high thread count armour. It doesn't bother John – Sherlock is Sherlock in whatever clothing – but he's not even surprised at how quickly he left his courage on the pavement.

“So who's car is this?”

“My brother's.”

“The fat one?”

John remembers the driver too late, but he didn't even turn around. Sherlock laughs maliciously.

“Yes, I rather like for him to be defined by that.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“You wouldn't live to warn others about it.”

“Oh, I'm quaking. You forget I've just gone through months of intense physical and tactical training.”

“I did, too.”

John raises his eyebrows.

“Really? I would have thought – well, I mean I just never see you with your hat or tie. I thought maybe you didn't have to go through basic.”

“I get dreadful hat hair.”

“And a tie feels like choking?”

“You've guessed it.”

John lowers his voice and tilts his head back.

“But I never guess.”

It's probably the poorest imitation of Sherlock ever uttered, but John grins after he does it, quite pleased with himself. Sherlock meets his grin with blankness for a moment, then turns to stare out the window. John can see him smiling in the reflection.

“Are you _sure_ you went through basic?”

“Yes, John. That's something that one remembers.”

John hums a moment and pretends to study the passing buildings. He lets the comfortable silence stretch between them, but plans an attack. When he's sure Sherlock is sufficiently lost in thought, he shoots out a hand to smack the other boy's shoulder, just to test his reflexes.

Before John can touch Sherlock's jumper, the other boy has John's wrist pulled close to his chest, twisted, and a palm against the delicate swell of his forearm. John sucks in a shocked breath.

“It takes surprisingly little pressure to snap a bone.”

He keeps the hold for a fraction longer and then releases the twist, curling his fingers around John's arm, keeping him close. John's own palm is pressed against Sherlock's chest and he can feel the faint thump of his heartbeat through the fabric. Or maybe that's John's own blood rushing.

They stare at each other, waiting for the other to move.

John swallows.

“They didn't teach me that in basic.”

For whatever reason, Sherlock looks disappointed, as if John said the wrong thing. He releases the boy's arm and leans back against the seat once more.

“I studied Baritsu.”

“That sounds made up.”

“I assure you, it's not. I'll give you a demonstration later.”

He gives John a quick once over and John feels raked by flames. He knows his face must be the color of a tomato and he turns his whole body towards the window.

“Yeah, well, I bet I could take you if we were standing up.”

“What's that, John? You're mumbling? Was that a bet?

Annoyance and boyish bravado start to win over fumbling lust.

“You heard me. I bet I could take you in a fair fight.”

John turns to give Sherlock his best he-man, don't-fuck-with-me face, but Sherlock is right in his face, right next to him on the seat, pressed against his side. All shit-talking comebacks flee and he can only focus on those eyes _right there_. Sherlock smelled so nice, what was that? Was it his hair? He sweeps his gaze over Sherlock's cheeks and sees the barest hint of ultra pale freckles. He must detest them, ruins his posh image, but John bets they flourish in sunshine. Oh and his mouth, that mouth. John can't look away.

Sherlock lets him study his face, while the other boy watches John's mouth fall open, faint pants of terror and lust, chemical cocktail quickly relinquishing John of his motor skills. He presses the boy closer and leans down to whisper in his ear, lips pressed against the hyper sensitive shell.

“What shall we bet on, hmm?”

John shakes his head minutely, overwhelmed with Sherlock's hair in his face.

“We can't use money. I don't need it and you don't have it. What do you have, John?”

John is quivering and he's too possessed by Sherlock's body radiating heat to notice.

“You have very few bargaining chips here, and your pride is at stake.”

Sherlock trails his fingers over the top of John's hand, clenched so tightly that he's leaving a noticeable crease in his trousers.

“How about services? I'm sure you can do all sorts of wonderful things for me. How about... ”

Sherlock pauses to bite John's ear, just the barest press of teeth.

“Your virginity.”

John stops breathing. Sherlock starts to spider walk his fingers down to John's thigh from his hand and the other boy snatches Sherlock's wrist in a tight grip. He turns to face Sherlock with a sort of determined dread.

“If you don't stop touching me, I'm going to come in my pants, right here in this car.”

He gets his feet back a bit as that information seems to knock Sherlock off his sexy high horse for a moment. John actually sees his pupils dilate, so close are their faces. He shuts his mouth and they pause a hair's breadth from each other, tension racked so high that John thinks he might die before they even get the chance to kiss.

“What do I get from you if I win?”

Sherlock blinks and remembers himself. He grins.

“I'll tell you anything you want. Ask me any question you desire of me and I'll promise to answer it truthfully.”

John aches for a moment, imagining the taste of such a sweet victory. Sherlock barely talks about himself. He avoids questions when he doesn't feel like revealing anything else. John would love to pull his secrets and identity from him, unravelled thread by thread until there's nothing but pure Sherlock underneath.

And maybe he can get him to say desire like that again.

“Deal.”

He says it before he can change his mind, before he can think of the actual consequences. Plus, he knows his low center of gravity will be an advantage on solid ground. He's sure he has a fair chance of winning, even if the absolutely terrifying expression on Sherlock's face makes him think he should be second guessing himself.

Sherlock releases John and returns to his side of the seat. John crosses his arms and they don't speak for the rest of the drive, though they both sneak looks when they think the other isn't looking.

 

 

oOo

It's his first night in the new dorms and John's chest clenches and blossoms into a full blown panic attack.

He promised to have sex with Sherlock.

A boy.

Sex.

Sherlock.

He rolls to the side and plants his feet on the cool vinyl of the floor, hanging his head between his knees. He's going to be sick. He tries to keep his breath low to prevent waking his room mates, and walks as quietly as he can down the hall to the shared bathroom.

Splashing water on his face helps and John grips the sink edges until his knuckles turn white. His breath whooshes out all at once and he can finally face himself.

His fringe sticks up from stressful sweating that broke out a moment ago. He flattens it down and lets his palm drag over his face.

This is the most ridiculous situation John H. Watson has ever gotten himself into in his ridiculously short life.

It's only if he loses. But what if he wants to lose? Is he ready for that?

He looks at his arms, strong and sinewy from training. He reckons he could probably knock the shit out of Sherlock if he really wanted to, but that's the last thing he wants to do.

Would that mean they were dating? Mike had really knocked John for a loop when he brought up the idea of the museum being a date. What if that was Sherlock's really weird way of showing affection?

But how much does John _really_ know Sherlock? He just swore on something very important with someone he knows very little about. It was certainly gratifying to think that Sherlock thought that John was such a prize. But...

When were they going to fight anyway?

John feels weighted with questions that won't be answered any time soon. He pads back to his bed and unplugs his cellphone, slipping to the loo again and locking himself in a stall. He sits on the top of the toilet and texts Sherlock.

[x] When are we going to fight?

He taps his fingers against his tightly pressed lips, but doesn't have to wait long. He smiles a little, despite his anxiety – he just knew that Sherlock was a night owl.

[+] You made the bet. You set the time.

Not really what John wants to hear.

[x] I have some ground rules to set first.

[+] Let's see if I agree to them.

[x] I think I'm putting more at stake than you are. I need to know you a little better first if I'm going to agree to

[x] What we agreed to.

[+] That rather defeats the purpose of the bet.

[+] Asking me questions is your reward.

[x] Yeah, but who said I wanted to ask questions about you?

John waits a moment for a response, curling his toes around the edges of the pristine lid. He has time to think he could probably drink the water from the bowl it's so clean – and wrinkle his nose at the thought – before Sherlock texts him back.

[+] Fine. You're allotted one question a day.

[+] I can refuse to answer.

He can hear the disdain dripping through the phone. Chuckling, he thumbs out a reply.

[x] I'll take it.

A light bulb clicks on in John's head.

[x] I'm not going to tell you when the fight is.

[+] That hardly seems fair.

[x] Well, guess you're not that confident in your skills.

[+] Piss off.

[+] Fine.

[+] Better make those questions good, John.

He flips his phone shut and mentally tallies how many texts his has left. Every text is definitely worth it to him. He shakes his head before he starts having hearts float around his ears and grumbles to himself before heading back to bed.

 

 

oOo

John doesn't have time to think about what his question for the day will be. He doesn't have time to think of much of anything really. If he thought basic was tough...

Everyone around him seems just as stressed as John. Circles under the eyes of the girl next to him in Intermediate Strategy. A pencil chewed to bits by the boy beside him in Military History. Not to mention the addition of intellectual tests the likes of which John's brain can barely conceive. They're given daily problems, presented to small groups of three or four, then given only an hour to prepare to before they have to report to their officers with their solutions. It can be things like how to guard a town, rescue a fellow platoon, install proper equipment and the officers purposely try to trip them up to keep them quick on their feet.

John is mentally exhausted each day and barely gets any sleep because all he dreams of is Sherlock. He wakes at least once every other night with dreams so real he swears they were actually happening. He's woken more than once reaching towards someone who isn't there. He always has to get up and take himself in hand before his mind will fizz out again and let him rest. It's like he's got a wank quota to meet before the midterm.

He's resting his head against the cool mess hall table while some of his semi-mates chatter around him. It's soothing and he likes the background hum of a hundred people talking at once. His scattered brain settles for a moment and he breathes deeply. Only after a few moments does he realize the boys around him have stopped talking. He lifts his head to find just Sherlock at his stretch of table, all traces of the other cadets gone. John squints at him.

“Are you some kind of magician?”

“I thought we established I was a vampire. They have mind control powers.”

“And you say you never kid.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts for a second then returns to normal.

“You've not asked me any questions. It's been two weeks.”

John swallows and pokes at his food.

“I've been very busy.”

He can feel Sherlock peering at him.

“You're not sleeping.”

Of course Sherlock is going to hone in on John's quickly flushing face.

“You're embarrassed about not sleeping.”

John coughs and can't bring himself to leave the table. It feels like ages since he spoke to Sherlock and the last time they parted had been the highlight of his year so far. Not that they were very far into it. Doesn't matter, John has memorized every second they were pressed together.

“Something to be ashamed of in your bed. Keeping you from sleep. Ah, you're watching my hands. The dreams are about me, in a sexual nature, I suppose.”

John didn't even realize he was watching Sherlock's hands, but he must have done. Now he watches them fold delicately together for him to prop his chin on. He looks terribly smug. John has to look away.

He sees out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock is tracing his own lips with one fingertip, casual and not provocative, maybe thoughtful, to the outside observer, but for John – who has become something of a fanatic at the altar of Sherlock – watches in rapt attention from his peripheral.

“I'll have your question now, John. I've waited long enough.”

He panics, definitely having not thought of a perfect question yet. They feel like wonderful passes to Sherlock's brain and he wants to make the best out of the opportunity. He sweeps his eyes over Sherlock once and blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“How did you know Stamford collected bugs?”

Sherlock laughs (he _laughs_ , John might die happy _right now_ ) and unfolds his hands. He lays them flat on the table and smiles at John.

“John Watson, that funny little brain of yours is wonderfully surprising. Of all the things to ask me.”

“Is that an insult?”

“I'll let you decide. Stamford's room had a distinct sweet smell, even from the hallway. Upon further investigation, his personal effects faintly smelled like ethyl acetate. Perhaps he was a chemistry enthusiast like myself, but specifically, it was the killing jars he was using to hold his pens on his desk that alerted me to our common hobby. I don't believe he can smell the solvent any more – likely he is quite used to it.”

“What does ethyl acetate have to do with bug collecting?”

“It's used to asphyxiate insects without damaging them and also leaves their bodies pliable enough for mounting or dissection.”

“Why would you dissect them? I've always seen them just with the pins stuck through the middle.”

Sherlock continues to talk about every aspect of bug collecting for John's entire lunch. Though Sherlock is not actually talking about himself, at the end of the hour, John thinks he knows more about the boy than he did before. He doesn't regret his silly question one bit.

 

 

oOo

Over the next month, John struggles a tremendous amount to make time for Sherlock in his life. Sometimes Sherlock will show up unannounced in a hallway while John is scurrying to classes and John will ask him whatever question he can think of in the brief moment. Sometimes, if John can stand upright after his day, they'll meet on the common and go hide in a corner and talk until John starts nodding off in his sentences.

Other times, John will wake in the night after another dream and text Sherlock a question, who always seems to be awake to answer immediately. John often wonders what the other boy is doing at the hour before he goes back to sleep.

He's happy that the dreams have evened out. He still dreams about doing every dirty thing his base brain can come up with, but now some of them are just him and Sherlock, sitting outside somewhere, not speaking, just sitting close to each other. He comes to enjoy these dreams as much as the steamy ones, looks forward to them even.

They do make him more awkward around Sherlock if he sees the boy the next day. It's like he's moved past the sexy dreams – Sherlock's already embarrassed him about them so much that he's used to spluttering about it – but the normal dreams feel... intimate. Intimate in a way that Sherlock has not indicated he wants. And that makes John's heart go weak in a terrible way.

John never mentions those dreams (not that he mentions his dreams at all) and he lets Sherlock go on thinking that they're all just dirty scenarios of him. Him 'promising his virtue' – Sherlock's words, not his – had actually become a bit of a non-issue over the weeks and their friendship grew into something John has never experienced before. They're comfortable, but Sherlock surprises him everyday with the sheer amount of knowledge he keeps packed in that curly head of his. He lets the issue of his heart lie.

While he grows his friendship with Sherlock, John continues to work harder than he ever has in his life. Endless strategies, gun exercises, running. Always running, always something heavy strapped on. If it wasn't running through tunnels, it was running over tunnels. He thought they had finished this in basic, but now outside group rescue missions were routine. John knows they're valuable practice, but he's counting down the days until everyone gets a rare weekend off.

Sherlock never tires, or so John suspects. The boy is always ready with a sharp word and of course, his face never gets spotty with stress or haggard with sleep deprivations. In fact, he never sees Sherlock in classes, or in training. He doesn't pry, as he has a feeling that these types of questions are the ones that Sherlock will sidestep altogether. He'll save them up for when he wins the fight.

Oh, the fight. John hasn't forgotten. Just because they don't talk about it, doesn't mean John doesn't think about it at least once or twice a day. He'll be memorizing dates for a fake pick up time and John allows himself a few seconds to indulge in how he'll crouch low and launch himself at the tall git, the locking hold that will keep that long neck still. He tries not to plan too much, as he knows spontaneity is a great ally in fighting and one of John's stronger points.

He carefully locks away what he knows will come after. He doesn't want to speculate, as it will not live up to the answers he knows he'll receive. The alternative of him losing is always avoided, even in his mind's eye. It makes him feel vulnerable just thinking about it, but so wonderfully excited that he'd never get any work done if he dwelled on it.

John knows that Sherlock is paying attention to how long it's taking him to make a decision. At first he thinks maybe the other boy is just patient. It's just so incongruous with his personality that John finds it hard to believe. Then maybe Sherlock is up to something... much more believable.

He vows to stay on his guard.

 

 

oOo

John sits in the mess hall at what has become his and Sherlock's normal table. A strange thing about their relationship is that it's completely unpredictable. Some days, John likes that he doesn't know if Sherlock will turn up or not. Other days, he just wishes the other boy would be sensible and normal for once so John's not left awkwardly alone at the table.

He knows he wouldn't _really_ have Sherlock any other way. He decided a few weeks ago to just keep living his life and not worrying about when Sherlock would show up or when he wouldn't. He'd found it much easier to concentrate on his studies when he allowed Sherlock to go and come without worrying too much. He knew that Sherlock would eventually come back to him and that was enough. He'd already told John about how damnably boring every one else at the academy was, so if for nothing else, he'd come back to John for company.

It's a shallow comfort, John admits. He taps his fork on the table, not particularly hungry. He'd requested an extra helping of food because he knew Sherlock would eat anything on John's plate while John pretended to be scandalized about it. It usually gave him an excuse to touch Sherlock, a wonderful bonus. He would grab that bony wrist and slide his fingers over the soft flesh there for just a moment of incredible indulgence, just to see Sherlock's pupil's blossom and then he'd release him. It was about the only brave thing John could really do and he did it as often as Sherlock allowed him.

But touching had become something of a priority in John's brain. Sherlock rarely did. Since the few times he'd touched him before they agreed on their bet, Sherlock had yet to really touch him again. Sure, they sat close in the library or outside and they probably talked closer than was normal for two boys. But not a single touch had been seductive in nature and it was driving John more than a little mad. What if Sherlock wasn't interested any more? What if -

John breaks out into goose pimples all along his arms when warm fingers settle on the nape of his neck. They brush there for a moment into the short hairs at the back of his neck, then they're gone as Sherlock sits next to him. He's far too close to John for them to look casual, but Sherlock seems to neither notice or care as he's only got eyes for John.

Unnerved, John tries to scoot sideways on the bench, just a little, to give them some breathing room, but Sherlock's palm plants itself on his upper thigh and doesn't move, so neither does John. He simply tries to remember how to breathe.

“Hello, John. I trust your classes this morning went well?”

“I-”

“I discovered some fascinating discrepancies in some of my blood sample experiments this morning. I'll have to show them to you later. You'll find them most interesting. What are we having today?”

Sherlock picks up John's fork and pokes at his food, wrinkling his nose.

“This doesn't even look worthy of stealing. The quality of the food here really is abhorrent. Let me tell you about my experiment instead.”

As Sherlock talks non-stop, his hand is very busy. John sits ramrod straight and hears not a word that the other boy is speaking, too focused on his hand to do much else. Sherlock slides his fingers down to John's knee, but digs in slightly, pulling back towards his crotch with increased pressure until John has to shift his hips to accommodate or die on the spot. He's so uncomfortably turned on in such a public area, it might be okay if he just passed from existence. Of course Sherlock chooses to lean in.

“Oh, all these people, John.”

Indeed, the mess is full of soldiers, cadets, officers and teachers, all chattering and eating. John knows none of them are paying particular attention the two strange boys who sit in the corner, but he feels like every eye is on him at the moment.

“What would all these people think about the things I want to do you, John Watson? Think of their scandalized faces if I dropped to my knees right now and sucked you off.”

John inhales sharply, imagining it. How does Sherlock read his mind like that?

Sherlock laughs quietly and continues in John's ear, soft puffs of heat against the delicate shell.

“You'd moan for me. You'd spread your legs right here like a harlot for me.”

He suddenly reaches in to the underside of John's legs and pulls them violently apart, causing John to jump and tilt his head against Sherlock's forehead, biting his lips to stifle a moan. Someone was going to see them, they were going to be caught right in the middle of everyone! Remarkably, as embarrassed as John is by the idea, the effect is turning him on more than he's ever been in his life. Or maybe that's because Sherlock now has a possessive hand curled around his thigh.

“I'd reward you for every sound you made. Just – like – this.”

Sherlock sweeps his tongue over the spot right behind John's ear with each word. John feels his world ending and he's not sure he'll survive anything Sherlock has to offer if this is just the pre-show.

“And I. I would--”

John comes to a little and notices how quick Sherlock's breath huffs against his neck. He's not the only one affected by Sherlock's words and it gives John a shot of courage right through his veins. He reaches over to Sherlock's own lap and palms him right through those too tight trousers and grins in triumph to find Sherlock so hard. John's always found the direct approach is best. It's reassuring to feel he's not alone in this world shifting thing they have between them.

Sherlock removes his hand from John's lap and stands, looking distraught. John can't help but laugh at one-upping Sherlock at his own game and is gratified to see the other boy walk stiff legged to the nearby exit.

“See you later, Sherlock!”

Sherlock makes a rude gesture without turning around. John laughs and then frowns at his lap, remembering that he also has to get up and leave the mess with a tremendous problem in his trousers.

He sighs and decides to eat his food, hoping maybe it would just go away by the time he's done.

 

 

oOo

Over the next week, Sherlock touches John _constantly_. Be it fingers brushing for too long, or Sherlock touching his neck for a brief instant to get his attention, John knows they are signs of Sherlock's impatience. Any time John thinks Sherlock is actually going to follow through and kiss him, the other boy will lean away just in time, leaving John aching with frustration. This can't be healthy for either of them.

Sherlock acts like these instances are not happening and pulls away or simply leaves if John tries to retaliate again. John knows he'll lose his mind at this rate and just snap for the sake of both their libidos.

But after the first week of touching, Sherlock pulls away completely. They still meet, they still talk, but Sherlock wholly refrains from touching John in even the most casual of manner. He has the same personality, talks the same, but just – no touching. John thinks this might be worse than the week of contact. He doesn't know if he maybe did something wrong, or if he's pushing Sherlock away. It keeps him awake at night when he should definitely be resting.

This goes on for two more weeks. Another week of touching non-stop. Another week of impersonal Sherlock. It's been a month of agony for John, yo-yo-ing between touch and nothing, until all he can think about is Sherlock's fingers, his smell, his mouth. John reaches a breaking point when he's in the middle of a staged rescue mission and he gets chewed out for mistiming his approach.

It's while he's running his extra ten laps around the training fields as punishment that he feels his hesitation fold. Fighting Sherlock has to be better than what he's going through right now. No matter the outcome, it must be better than being in this weird level of unsatisfied hell where they're both pretending that they're not unhappy. Fuck that.

John knows he's the one causing the problem by being frightened – Sherlock is just exacerbating things, per usual. He snorts at himself. He's going to Afghanistan without second thoughts, and he's scared silly by Sherlock. Well, Sherlock and sex. John feels like he's waiting in line for a roller coaster, one that he knows will be so, so brilliant if he could just _get on it_.

Why could they not do this like normal people? Didn't people just go on dates? Ask each other out? Why did this have to be so hard? Why did Sherlock have to come along and be so stupid and handsome and smart and ruin John's concentration on even the most basic things?

He texts Sherlock as soon as he's done with his run, telling him that he wants to meet him right now. The sun is setting and he spent his free time running until he's exhausted and sweaty and _really worked up_. He's going to win this fight if it kills him.

[+] Where shall we meet?

[x] Behind Lucknow.

The infirmary wing was located on a far edge of the campus and if one of them accidentally really hurt the other, they would be in the right place to get patched up. Because John had no intentions of holding back. He's so mad at himself for being afraid and just plain tired of being so hormonal and emotional. He just needed to beat something up to clear his mind.

No matter that the object of his happiness and utter frustration was the same person. John didn't study too closely that he was right on the knife's edge of wanting to kiss or kill Sherlock. He just knows that nearly every second of his life has started to revolve around the boy and it can't continue. He just wants to get this out of the way so he can find some peace.

 

 

oOo

He jogs to the high brick building and avoids fellow cadets or officers, miraculously. It's approaching lights out and John knows he'll probably be caught outside after curfew. He doesn't think about it as he rounds the corner and finds Sherlock leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling from his long fingers. He flicks it away in one practiced move that looks cool and John is ready to go right now.

Sherlock wears a black tshirt and his cargo pants, the first time John has ever seen him in fatigues. The slouchy look suits him, the bastard, and John knows he would look fucking delectable in a paper bag. He reaches unknown levels in his temper at the unfairness of _everything_ and rips his jumper over the top of his head, flinging it to the side of the building with a _thwap_. It leaves him in his white undershirt and his own fatigues and boots.

Sherlock raises a laconic eyebrow.

“My, in quite a mood tonight, aren't we?”

John sees red and squares himself. Sherlock could start reciting Shakespeare and it would still make him mad.

“Let's go.”

Sherlock kicks off the wall and approaches him slowly. He's definitely ready when John launches himself in an all out jump, straight for Sherlock's middle. He sidesteps deftly and John is left tipping forward, grabbing air.

“John, calm down. Let your training take over. You're worked up.”

John snarls.

“Don't tell me _calm down_.”

He hooks a leg around Sherlock's calf and pulls, but Sherlock jumps with the movement, bringing him close to John. Sherlock whips his leg out of the hold and ducks John's punch, trying to slip to the side again. John grabs at his tshirt, stretching the material as Sherlock tries to go behind him.

“Stop being so slippery, damn you!”

“We're _fighting_ , John. You never said what techniques we had to use.”

John staggers as there's an uncomfortable whack to the back of his neck. He pretends to be hurt for a moment, letting Sherlock pull close for another blow, before he spins and grabs the boy's fist. Sherlock twists, but John's grip is iron and he knocks Sherlock a solid blow in his jaw.

The other boys looks dazed for a moment, then grabs John's front and yanks him forward, giving him a solid headbutt that makes John's ears ring for just a second. Sherlock manoeuvres away while John shakes his head.

Sherlock just _headbutted_ him!

John bellows in outrage, probably too loudly, and it takes Sherlock by surprise. It gives John enough of an edge to tackle the boy right in his middle, knocking them to the ground with a loud whump.

Dust stirs as they scrabble at each other, trying to find a good enough hold to wrestle the other into submission. Sherlock jabs him in the ribs and pushes the air right out of John's lungs. John manages to grab a fistful of Sherlock's curls and the other boy whines in pain. They roll and tussle.

Eventually, Sherlock gets the upper hand. John is tangled in his (stupid) long limbs, their knees knocking together painfully. Sherlock seizes the moment to push his chest against John, laying the boy flat, and settle his center of gravity right above John's pelvis.

John flings his arms up to push Sherlock away, but quickly finds his elbows pinned by Sherlock's knees when he sits on John's stomach. He struggles and cries out for long minutes, valiantly trying to knock the taller boy off, but Sherlock won't budge. After an almighty yell, John bucks his hips so hard as to unseat the boy slightly and Sherlock slides down and inch or two until he's sitting right on John's lap.

John sees white and goes terribly still, as Sherlock draws attention to his flooded cock, harder than it has any right to be after a fight. He has a moment of rationality to think that maybe it's because this is the most he's ever touched Sherlock in all the months he's know him and his body is taking what it can get. He lies stiff with embarrassment as Sherlock studies him.

All thought leaves him as Sherlock grinds backwards onto his crotch, pushing his perfect bum in slow, hard circles right on the center of John's world. It leaves him breathless, mouth open unattractively. He doesn't even notice that Sherlock's released his arms until he finds himself gripping Sherlock's knees, fingers digging in painfully. He cants his hips in desperation for more contact. Sherlock dips his head and John can't stand it another second.

He pushes Sherlock in the chest and flattens them both to the ground again. He smashes their mouths together, weeks and weeks of imagining finally coming to an end. It's inelegant and John can taste blood where he undoubtedly split Sherlock's lip, but it's _perfect_.

Sherlock is equally as aggressive, grabbing what he can of John's hair and neck, wrapping a leg around John's waist and shoving his hips against John's until their cocks are aligned. They both choke and pause as the full effect of what they're doing hits them. It lasts for less than a second before Sherlock pries open John's mouth and they're kissing with abandon.

Their hips are straining so against the other that John's sure his heart might burst before they even get their trousers open. Sherlock is panting in his mouth, little groans sneaking out when John goes faster, rutting against him harder. It's blowing every fantasy out of the water for John and he struggles to keep his eyes open to watch the flush spread down Sherlock's neck. He traces his tongue over the color, collecting the sweat in the base of Sherlock's throat.

He thinks this might be how it ends, coming in his pants like an amateur, but it's so good, _so good_ , there's no way he can stop. Sherlock makes the decision for him by pushing him away and rolling to his knees. John looks up and has to collect himself.

Sherlock looks like an animal. There's a smudge of dirt across his cheek from their fight, a slight bruise forming on the underside of his jaw. It makes him look dangerous, in combination with the outrageous state of his hair and the dark look he throws John. He opens his mouth and John knows he could come from the growl he lets loose.

“Against the wall.”

John scrambles to his feet and slams his back to the chilled bricks, heart rate through the roof. As he watches Sherlock crawl toward him rather ungracefully, a wave of nervousness hits him and his knees threaten to buckle. They were really doing this. What if John disappoints?

Sherlock reaches him and John closes his eyes, too scared to even look him in the face. He breathes in quiet shudders, needing and dreading the inevitable press of Sherlock's fingers.

“John. Look at me.”

It takes embarrassingly long to realize that Sherlock's spoken to him. He cracks open his eyes and tilts his face to Sherlock's, so close to his dick John can feel his breath through the material. The other boy smooths his palms over John's thighs and doesn't let his gaze leave John's face. John looks at him pleadingly before realizing Sherlock is waiting for something. He searches through the upheaval of his mind to think what he could possibly be missing, what he's doing wrong.

As panic creeps in, he puts a stop to it by watching Sherlock's face. This is Sherlock. He's awful, he's rude, he's been tremendously unfair to John on more than one occasion. But John finds with a start that he trusts him, wholly and completely. He knows that Sherlock wouldn't intentionally hurt him (well, that knot on the back of his head aside), and that Sherlock is taking this moment to calm him down, to make the fact known.

Sherlock must trust him as well to have stuck by John's side, to have continued speaking to him after that morning on the brick wall. John knows that Sherlock has no other friends at the academy and John is the sole proprietor of his social time. While John was busy being grateful that Sherlock even wanted to speak to him, he thinks that maybe Sherlock was grateful to have him as well. They were in this together.

The thought soothes him and his face relaxes marginally. Sherlock nods and reaches forwards for the button of his pants. John's nerves sing with terror, but he feels better by miles. He thanks Sherlock silently, digging his fingers into the grout of the bricks behind him when the cold air hits the exposed skin above his waistband. Sherlock presses his nose there and speaks against his skin.

“You're trembling.”

John snorts and opens his mouth to be perfectly scathing, but Sherlock pulls down his pants and he has nothing left to say. Sherlock settles on his knees and says nothing, does nothing, until John feels his chest ache with anxiety.

“What? What's wrong?”

He thinks 'inadequate' and terror roils like acid in his stomach. He's so hard, but he'll make it back to his dorm somehow and take care of this, then never see Sherlock again. John's ready to bend down and pull his pants back up before Sherlock places a single kiss, right at the exposed tip of his cock. John flattens against the wall and it takes him a moment to realize the other boy is murmuring into his skin.

“Perfect, just wonderful, John. You have no idea how often I've thought about this, about you.”

Sherlock makes a small pained noise of want and draws John in-between those smart lips and John loses his anchor on the world. He grips the wall for clarity as Sherlock discovers every inch of him, pushing his tongue along every groove and sucking obscenely on the back pull, a wonderful, disgusting sound John shall never forget. He flattens his tongue along the underside and rounds his lips over his teeth, exploring with his fingers through the coarse hair and the dips in John's sides, around to the flex of his arse, sliding a curious finger slowly along the crease there.

John is overcome and not sure what to do with his hands. He wants to touch Sherlock, to thrust his hips until the boy can no longer speak, but he's not sure if either are all right to do. He settles for barely touching the top of Sherlock's head. It causes the other boy to meet his eyes and give a particularly hard suck and out of nowhere, John is coming right in Sherlock's mouth, with little warning.

Sherlock pulls back and coughs, some of John's release hitting him right in the face. Fortunately, Sherlock closed his eyes in time, but come is streaking down his cheek and he sits back on his heels, surprised and a touch annoyed.

John is mortified. His insides turn to ash as soon as he sees what he's done and he drops to knees still shaky from orgasm. He stutters and has no idea what to say, reaching out with his fingers to try and wipe some of the mess from Sherlock's face. Hot tears sting his eyes.

“God Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry, please let me -”

Sherlock grabs his dirty fingers and halts his hasty clean up. He slants an eye open and meets John's frantic gaze.

“It's quite all right, John. A little warning next time would be welcome.”

John wilts even more but Sherlock shakes his head, a devilish grin spreading across his features.

“It's a good thing I like the taste, or this tryst would have gone rather sour, I think.”

He sucks John's fingers into his mouth and licks them clean. He releases the digits with a slick pop and John can't do anything but stare. Sherlock's not done – during the process, John watched his eyes dilate even further.

“On your feet.”

Before John can even comply, Sherlock pulls him to standing, crowding John face first against the brick wall. He presses himself along his back, John's bare arse brushing the folds of his fatigues. His heart speeds again, not sure he's ready for whatever Sherlock has in mind.

“Sherlock. Sherlock wait, I don't think -”

“Relax, John. I'm not going to fuck you.”

The way Sherlock says 'fuck' is almost enough to make John wish that they were. He presses his face against his forearms as he listens to Sherlock fumbling around behind him. He hears the sound of plastic and jumps when cool liquid hits the small of his back. He twists to see what's going on.

“What are you doing? Did you bring lube with you?”

Sherlock turns him back to the wall, but John can hear the smirk in his voice.

“I wasn't sure what we would be up to tonight. I didn't realize we would be moving to this so quickly.”

John hunches his shoulders, but he can tell Sherlock was teasing by the gentle kisses he places across his shoulder blades through the thin material of his shirt. He relaxes marginally and waits. Sherlock fumbles some more and then John is struck by intense heat from his toes all the way to his ears.

Sherlock presses his bare cock to the small of John's back, spreading the lube in small circles while he drops his head to John's shoulder. He restrains a groan between his teeth and settles for licking John's skin while he pulls his cock down between John's cheeks. John flexes in terror, too tight.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax. Trust me.”

Sherlock waits for John to unwind and listens for the sigh from the other boy before proceeding. John digs his fingers into his own palm as Sherlock glides his cock in and out of the crevice of his arse, pushing John further and further against the wall with each thrust. It's uncomfortable at first, the sensation foreign and slippery, but that is Sherlock's _cock_. He's feeling the other boy lose control behind him, his fingers gripping John's hips in a death lock.

John feels his own cock beginning to stir again at the thought – calm, composed Sherlock shoving his cock against John's arse, sweating, losing his mind like John did just moments before. If Sherlock experiences half of what John felt, he'll feel proud for the evening. He begins to work his hips in tandem, making it easier for Sherlock to shove and manipulate how he wants him. He wants to give himself over completely to this mad, brilliant boy and allows his forehead to bump against the brick with every increasingly violent jerk of Sherlock's hips.

He's fully hard again and lets out a decidedly un-masculine squeal when Sherlock wraps those clever fingers around his dick. John tries to tune into what Sherlock's whispering against his neck, but he only catches snippets of 'magnificent' and 'gorgeous'. He flushes with pleasure at the thought of Sherlock's praise.

The other boy must be getting close as John feels him harden even further against him, thrusts becoming ever more desperate and rushed. Sherlock starts jacking him in earnest, wringing tiny cries out of John's panting mouth at every twist of his grip.

John comes first, spilling between Sherlock's fingers and Sherlock wraps an arm around his chest, pushing against him so hard with his hips that John is almost flat against the wall. John trembles and shudders, body trying to fold in on itself as he orgasms hard enough to curl his toes. Sherlock is pressed so intimately against him he feels they'll never have to part, so as one are they. The boy's breath stutters against his neck and he pushes his hips a few more feeble times before John can feel him coming.

Heat spreads and pulses between his cheeks, spilling up to the small of his back as Sherlock grinds their hips in slow satisfaction, groaning sinfully into John's neck as he loses the ability to stand. John can barely stand himself and they slump against one another on the wall, John holding Sherlock up to the best of his ability while he regains his motor functions. Thick, cooling liquid slides down the back of his thigh and John thinks he'll never find a happier moment in the world. He grins into his arm.

“Oi, c'mon. Up with you.”

He jostles his shoulders and Sherlock comes to again, grumbling. John smiles.

“Stop complaining.”

He reaches down to redo his trousers, though he feels filthy. When it's obvious Sherlock is just going to stand there looking grumpy, he squats down to do up Sherlock's own, sneaking glances at his flaccid cock. He'd quite like to see it next time. This wasn't as difficult as he thought it would be to accept.

When he stands, Sherlock is watching him, alert and with heat in his eyes. He pulls John forward into a dirty kiss, swiping his tongue around every corner of John's mouth. They part breathless.

“I like the look of you down there. We'll have to do this again.”

John's ears go red. Sherlock smiles.

“Well, I'd like that. Yes. I need to... I better. Well.”

John turns to leave, completely at a lost as to what to do next. The sun is already long gone down and he knows he'll be missed. He reaches down to grab his jumper and feels an arm on his elbow.

“You're an idiot. Come on.”

Sherlock leads him to the far side of Lucknow, towards a fire escape. He jumps and lowers the ladder with an easy move that shows plenty of first hand practice. He gestures for John to follow him.

They climb to the second floor and Sherlock jimmies the window until it slides open silently. He slips inside and John hesitates on the landing, decidedly anxious. Sherlock's never shown him his room before, and he has a sliver of doubt about leaving his own bed empty for the night. He erases his fears for the moment when Sherlock holds out a hand for him and sweeps him into the room. It's dark and John waits for a moment for Sherlock to turn on the light when he leaves him.

Hands tug him away from the light of the window and Sherlock flips on a switch to a small side room. It's a bathroom. Sherlock is already stripping him of his clothes, then turning the shower on. He pushes John inside, strips of his own dirty garments and begins to slowly and carefully wash the filth away from John. It makes every inch of skin tingle on John's body, not only to have someone so intimately care for him – while he's completely starkers – but also just for what it says about Sherlock. Maybe John hasn't been so alone in this after all.

He's not sure he can get it up again, though he tries to be tactful about Sherlock's cock showing interesting in their proximity. He tells John to ignore it as he towels him off and by the time they're heading back to Sherlock's room, John is sleepy and pliant.

At some point Sherlock clicks on a lamp, but John is too tired to even take in his surroundings. He lets Sherlock guide him towards a bed with way too many blankets and pillows to be regulation and allows himself to be pushed and prodded like a rag doll until Sherlock is comfortable. The light clicks off and John is more than halfway gone, but he summons the strength to smile when Sherlock curls around his back, pressing a soft kiss to his bare shoulder before sleep claims them both.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! This is now five chapters. There will be an epilogue to this chapter. I tried fitting them together & it just wasn't working. So this one is a bit shorter. Expect the next part in a few days. Lots of ~feelings~ in this chapter, so hoping that I got the right mixture of emotion, instead of a huge pile of cheese. Thanks for continuing to read!

John wakes up.

He revels in contentment. He feels his own legs tangled with Sherlock's and presses his face into the other boy's hip. Hip?

Shifting, he squints into awareness, noticing that Sherlock is sitting up with a book propped on one bent knee. He removes a hand from the pages and lays it on the top of John's mussed hair.

“Go back to sleep. It's half three.”

With sudden clarity, John realizes his face was pressed to Sherlock's naked hip, his arm wound around Sherlock's waist. He is terribly aware of his own nudity and tries valiantly to be nonchalant. They definitely had sex – this was just something that came next. But it's new territory, being this close to someone naked, especially if they're missing clothes, too. It's overwhelming, that much skin, and John tries to control his breathing.

Sherlock places a hand on the arm around his waist. John looks up to find him studying his face with that familiar scrutiny.

“You're fine. You're also not going anywhere, so don't even think about moving.”

John laughs and lets his head drop. He does move afterwards, shifting up until he can plant his chin on Sherlock's bony shoulder. He leaves his arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer to accommodate their moved positions. Seeing Sherlock's comfort with the situation helps to soothe his own fears and he finds himself not quite comfortable, but working on getting there.

“I'm awake now. What are you reading?”

“Dracula.”

John laughs.

“You are not. Gimme that.”

He tries to grab the book from Sherlock, but he snaps it shut and stuffs it into a beside table.

“Now you'll never know. Anyway, you're much more interesting.”

He turns his head and their lips brush, a soft sigh escaping John. Sherlock pulls them back down to the bed, yanking one of the multiple blankets to their shoulders. He winds his long fingers with John's shorter ones and pulls them up between them. They share breath for a moment and John thinks he'll never sleep again if this is what he's missing out on.

“How are you?”

Sherlock's question surprises him. It must show on his face. The other boy clears his throat.

“I might have been a trifle – enthusiastic.”

John presses his forehead to their joined hands, hiding his face. Sherlock continues.

“I did shove you against a brick wall. In my defense, I've been just as tortured by my strategy as you have.”

“What 'strategy'?”

It's Sherlock's turn to look away when John pulls up to get an answer.

“I surmised that pushing you to the brink of madness might motivate you to speed on picking a time. I did not account for my own... feelings on the matter, as it usually is not a factor. It was a mistake on my part.”

“So all the touching and not touching.”

“My plan.”

“It's a shit plan. Especially on your end.”

Sherlock huffs and turns back with a glare.

“Well, yes, I can see that now, John.”

John kisses the frown away, breathless that he's allowed to do this freely now. They break and Sherlock seems similarly dazed. John smiles and they fall into comfortable silence, studying each other's faces. The side of Sherlock's jaw is slightly swollen from John's fist earlier. He reaches out to touch it tenderly. Sherlock closes his eyes, speaking low.

“You're not such a terrible fighter.”

“Glad to hear I have your approval. You're a slippery git who can't stand still.”

“Strategies.”

John considers for a moment.

“I could have won if we kept – now hang on! Let me finish.”

Sherlock had taken a breath to interrupt.

“I _said_ , I _could_ have done. But we were distracted. I think I deserve a consolation prize.”

He lets that sink in and Sherlock chuckles.

“I would think sex was prize enough.”

John goes red, but stands his ground.

“I still say it wasn't a fair fight by the end, with you in my lap and all, and I should at least be able to ask a few questions.”

Sherlock hums and tightens their fingers. John watches his face and notices the hesitancy there.

“Sherlock, please. I don't think I'll ever know enough about you, but I want to try. I'd tell you that you could ask me anything, but I'm sure you've already puzzled out everything you want to know.”

  
Sherlock looks at their hands and rubs his fingers over John's knuckles, touching every stretch of skin he reaches. Eventually, he nods and John takes a subtle breath, shaken with the thought that Sherlock trusts him. He cannot let this opportunity go to waste – who knows if it would ever come again?

“You don't have to answer anything if you don't want to -”

“Oh, this is all very melodramatic. I'm not a child! Just ask me.”

John isn't convinced, but looks towards the end of the bed.

“Why do you have so many blankets?”

Sherlock laughs quietly into their fingers and nuzzles closer. John almost doesn't hear him.

“I get cold.”

“You have more blankets than my Nan. And Lord, the pillows. You sleep like a prince.”

“I didn't hear you complaining. In fact, I heard distinctive snoring.”

“I don't snore!”

“Yes, I suppose you're right. I wouldn't call it snoring. More like the great wheezing gasps of a dying hog.”

John grabs one of the many pillows on Sherlock's bed, smashing it into his ridiculous face. He hears Sherlock laughing through the fabric and quickly removes it, worried that he'll miss one of those rare sounds, only to find a pillow of his own squashing his nose. They tussle and they're both laughing so hard that John starts to cramp in his side. Sherlock tries to wiggle under the blankets and away after John gets the upper hand, but John ducks after him.

They collapse under the covers with John's head planted on Sherlock's sternum, listening to the heavy thump of his heart. Their giggles quiet down and there's a faint glow under the sheet. John is reminded of a blanket fort he built once when he was very small. John hates to break the silence.

“You've got your own bathroom.”

The rumble of Sherlock's words vibrate through John's ears.

“My room is a guest room, one that is usually reserved for visiting officers or officials who'll have an extended stay.”

John waits.

“You want to know how I came about it.”

“You're in Lucknow, but not injured in any way I can tell.”

He gives Sherlock a swift pinch in the side, which causes the other boy to jerk. John stifles his giggles into his chest and Sherlock lightly pulls his ear in admonishment.

“No. I'm not injured. I am persuasive.”

“Is that what they call it.”

He knows Sherlock is rolling his eyes and he kisses the nearest patch of skin to placate him.

“I'm teasing. Continue.”

Sherlock pauses, considering something John doesn't know.

“I'm – I can make people do things that I want them to do. If I want someone to move, I can make them move, just by the way I speak or act. I've always had this skill.”

John goes very still.

“Not only can I make people do what I want them to do, I can make them believe what I say. It's incredible what people will take as truth if you have conviction. For instance, I didn't really have blackmail on your officer that night in the showers, but I made her believe I did. It's very simple to get what I want. I negotiated for an upgrade to my accommodations.”

John sits up abruptly, shoving the blankets off in irritation. Sherlock grabs him around the waist before he springs from the bed.

“John! Where are you going?”

John twists to escape, but Sherlock wraps a leg around him and pulls back with his weight, causing them both to tumble backwards to the bed, John pushing the air out of Sherlock's lungs. They lay sprawled there for a moment, Sherlock's arms locked around John's ribcage.

“You manipulate people, Sherlock. You make them _do what you want_? Why are you telling this to me?”

“Wait, I think you don't -”

“ _Fuck_ you, Sherlock if you think I'm going to sit here and listen to how you pulled one over on idiot John. If you planned this just because you were bored -”

“John, _stop_!”

Sherlock's shout echoes around the cement walls and stills John's wriggling. He presses frantic kisses to the back of John's neck.

“Please, please wait. Let me explain.”

Sherlock waits for John to relax fractionally and scoops him up to flip them over. He kisses John relentlessly until his hesitancy falls away. Only when the stiffness leaves John's shoulders does Sherlock pull back to cup John's face.

John is slightly frightened by Sherlock's expression. The boy keeps every thing close to his chest, even in their most candid moments over the past months. He's not sure how to handle a Sherlock who stares at him with such honesty.

“John, you must listen to me. Understand me.”

John nods slowly. Sherlock bares his teeth, as if the moment is causing him physical pain.

“You have not been coerced. My touching plan over these last few weeks was a desperate game, not manipulation. What you have seen of me is _me_ , I swear it to you. You must believe me when I tell you that in the months since I have met you, you have become a distinct point in my existence. There is a before John and an after. Everything before is a shade in comparison to the time I've spent with you. I live for the moments you bless me with your speech, and now that I've tasted you, taken you, I don't know-”

Sherlock inhales sharply and drops to burrow in the crook of John's shoulder and neck. John lies absolutely still, stunned. He knows Sherlock feels his wildly racing pulse in his throat.

“I don't know how I'll be able to function. I'm certain every moment of my thoughts will be flush with memories of you.”

They lie in silence, listening to the other breathe, while John collects his thoughts. He had no idea Sherlock felt this way. It's like Sherlock slammed open a door and moved all of his things right into John's heart. He knows exactly what the other boy means about before and after. He can't even focus on the before any more. Every moment is Sherlock's in some form or fashion.

John slowly uncurls his hands and brings them to Sherlock's nape. The boy lets outs a soft sob into John's neck, then calms himself. John pets his hair in slow, comforting strokes, until Sherlock speaks again.

“I killed a maid.”

John stops.

“Well, technically, I didn't kill her. More like I refrained from calling for help.”

He pulls his face out of John's neck and watches for John's reaction. John carefully keeps his expression neutral, but shows that he's listening. Sherlock rolls and tucks himself to John's side.

“She was new. I had given explicit orders to the rest of the house that my room was not to be disturbed, as I was working on some incredibly delicate experiments. She entered my room regardless, to clean, I presume. She jostled one of my desks and broke a jar of venom. She proceeded to clean that and stuck herself with a piece of the glass. By the time I returned to my room, she was in the final stages of anaphylaxis, caused by an extreme allergic reaction to the substance.”

John imagines his throat swelling until the world goes dark and pushes the thought away.

“Normally, the amount of venom that entered her blood stream is not nearly enough to kill anyone. It was an allergy she did not even know she had. Her eyes were rolled into her head and her heart rate had slowed to nearly nothing.”

He can see it in his head, Sherlock crouched over the girl, knowing exactly what had happened with a sweep of eyes over her dying body.

“Before I even had time to draw breath, she passed. I watched her for another moment and...”

John waits for Sherlock to continue, but when nothing is forthcoming, he jostles his shoulder a bit. Sherlock comes to with a ferocious expression.

“This was a corpse, John! A _real_ corpse. I've seen plenty of dead animals and I've read plenty of books on corpses, but never have I... She was right there and she had died in my lab, all of my equipment close to hand. I could not pass this opportunity up.”

John's stomach turns but he says nothing. Sherlock sounds so earnest, he's not sure he wants to interrupt.

“I guess a servant had seen us from the open doorway. When I looked up from my testing, Mummy was there with the worst possible expression on her face. I knew she had reached a threshold in how much she could love a son that had been called 'abnormal' from the day he left the womb.”

Sherlock stays very calm and John lets him work through whatever he wants to say next.

“She couldn't even look at me. I wasn't doing anything awful – I didn't cut her, or harm her – not like it would have mattered as she was dead. I was testing the consistency of her flesh as rigor mortis set in, how swiftly the color left her, the weight of her limbs in death, all magnificent and important for me to note. She had been useless in life, why could she not be useful to me in death?”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn't explain it that way to anyone else.”

“No one else will hear this story, John.”

John hums and lets Sherlock continue.

“Mummy left. Mycroft came in and took my notebook and they rolled the body away and he took me outside to sit in Father's garden. He told me that Mummy had reacted badly to what she had seen and that there was not going to be any persuading her. She wanted me put away.”

“An asylum?”

“Yes. Oh, somewhere very comfortable, I'm sure. But a prison, where they would analyze every word I said. Mycroft must have seen me panicking. He offered me an alternative.”

“Here.”

“Yes, Sandhurst. He told me, 'There's no talking your way out of this, Sherlock. You must choose one or the other.'”

“Why Sandhurst? Why not just a university?”

“An academy like this one has a good reputation for discipline, a rigid lifestyle and schedule to adhere to. Apparently, Mycroft convinced Mummy that maybe they could straighten me out here without putting me on drugs.”

John thinks Mycroft must be all right if he gave his little brother a choice like this, an alternative to what his mother had deemed unforgivable.

“Mycroft knew I had not killed her. He and I are similar in what we can see in a given situation. But Mummy did not see reason. I think she had just had enough of me by that point.”

“How old were you?”

“This was last year. I'd just turned eighteen. Mycroft enrolled me the following term.”

John doesn't think he'd ever be able to be polite in the face of Mummy Holmes. He pulls Sherlock a little closer, a protective fire growing in his chest.

“I accepted the offer of Sandhurst. But I've made myself as comfortable as I can here.”

He nudges John's jaw with his nose.

“But you. You've made me want to stay here forever.”

John is suddenly overcome with wild affection for this weird, wonderful boy in his arms. He dips down and gives Sherlock a fierce kiss, one that Sherlock returns with desperation. He clings to John like a lifeline and they part only for breath. John resumes kissing Sherlock's face, his nose, his cheeks, his brow.

“You still want to kiss me even after I experimented on a corpse.”

“I would still want to kiss you even if you smelled like one.”

“John, it wasn't normal for me not to call for help as soon as I saw she was dying.”

“Who wants normal anyway? You'd be boring if you were normal.”

“John! I mean it.”

John sighs and pulls back. He lets Sherlock see how sincere his expression is before continuing.

“Sherlock, stop trying to scare me off you. It's not going to work. I understand what you saw when you realized she was dead. You're pragmatic – it was an opportunity. I know your curiosity sometimes overrides your better judgement. This was one of those times. I'm just grateful your brother saw it, too.”

Sherlock scoffs, but John can see that he is seriously digesting what he said. After a moment, he breaks into a genuine, full blown smile and John commits the picture to memory. He surges forward and kisses John, whispering against his lips.

“I've done nothing to deserve you.”

“Well, I've been a perfect angel, so it must be me doing everything right.”

The other boy snorts and they laugh together until John yawns. Sherlock pulls the blankets back up and settles them again.

“You need sleep.”

“One more question.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and John smiles.

“Last one.”

“Did you ever really go through basic? I can't imagine you running. Or sweating. Oh, well, wait. I have seen you sweating, so scratch that.”

He gives Sherlock a wicked smile that the other boy returns.

“If you must know, I did.”  
  
“I would have paid good money to see that.”

“I'm sure you would have. No, there will not be any repeat performances of that time.”

“I can't coax you into some push-ups?”  
  
John would never say it aloud, but he bet Sherlock's arms look lovely when he's straining.

“Only if you're underneath me.”

Sherlock grins and gives him a swift peck on the cheek before reaching to turn the light out. They settle together again and the darkness makes John brave.

“Sherlock.”

“Mm?”

“Me, too.”

“What?”

“All of the. Every thing you said. The before and after. You're amazing, Sherlock. I don't know what's going to happen, but I need you to know it. You asked me to believe you, but I want you to believe me as well – you are the single most amazing person I've ever met.”

Sherlock is silent.

“And. That's it.”

The moments pass and John thinks maybe Sherlock's gone to sleep while he panics, thinking he's said too much. But Sherlock whispers in a voice so quiet that John nearly misses it.

“Thank you.”

He smiles in the dark and they drift off to sleep, wound limb through limb and intrinsically in each other's lives.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm done scraping my way out of the bowels of retail holiday hell and found a spare pocket of time to finish this! 
> 
> Thanks to the 100% helpful, knowledgeable comments from Loopy456, I had to go back & change a few minor things, which prompted me to remove the underage warning from this fic. Sherlock is still technically a teenager, but the tag is no longer needed. Loopy's comments were also instrumental in the time-frame of this last chapter, so thanks for that, too! 
> 
> Once again, all errors are my own. If you see something point it out, because there's only so many times I can fretfully read over this. Thanks (thanks thanks thanks) for reading!

John found dust on his toothbrush this morning. He's not sure how it happened – he keeps his living quarters remarkable neat for living in the desert. He thinks maybe the dust fell from his clothes and landed on the toothbrush.

In more whimsical moments, John thinks maybe his insides are finally turning to dust and he's going to fade into the sand. The sun tans him a darker brown every day, while his hair goes lighter. Maybe the sand just came from his mouth and he got it on his toothbrush that way. He's becoming one with his surroundings.

He daydreams about the logistics of dust and internal organs as he pulls off his thick, dirty work gloves. The constant, arid wind dies for a moment and he yanks down the kerchief covering his mouth, breathing deeply the dry Afghan air. Sunglasses perch on his nose and he uses the gloves to wipe sweat from his forehead. Stuffing the gloves in the back pocket of his fatigues, he heads towards his barracks, ready to clean up and head to the mess.

Five months, twenty five days. He marks through another day on his small pocket calendar. Twenty six days. He tugs the gloves out of his pocket and stuffs them into his kit, making room for them next to a small bundle of letters. Touching them for a brief second, John smiles.

Envelopes holding newspaper clippings stay tied together in a neat parcel. John memorizes them the moment he receives them, taking in every word in a rush the first time, then going back and slowly savoring details. They're Sherlock's cases, though his name is never mentioned. He tries to pick out the other's invisible handiwork between the lines.

John didn't see Sherlock at his grand graduation ceremony, but knows he must have been there. The boy was waiting next to his sister's car after John had clasped arms with every fellow soldier he knew and some he didn't. Sherlock didn't like to hang around the academy after he dropped out. John had spent the last two years of his training without seeing Sherlock every day and while he never wished for Sherlock to be in a place that made him miserable, he missed him terribly.

Thanks in part to the stabilizing influence of John, a year after they started their relationship, Sherlock had been without incident at the academy. No explosions, no reports, and no mysteriously poisoned cadets were relayed to Sherlock's brother, who was closely monitoring his progress. Sherlock's grades improved without him even trying, which annoyed John to no end, but he liked to think he was contributing to the cause by providing Sherlock with regular sex.

Not that there was anything regular about what they did. John goes pink at the memories.

On the day Mycroft sent Sherlock a thick package with pre-filled forms signalling his withdrawal from the school, the boy nearly set them on fire. John's hand stayed him. He knew Sherlock only wanted to stay because of him. He just couldn't let Sherlock waste his time there when he knew he could be doing something great. Not that either of them knew what that something was. It took weeks of convincing.

John rubs a grimy fist in his eye and takes out the first clipping, one that he saved himself after Sherlock insisted the newspapers were rubbish. It was a robbery case that had gone sour, ending in a dead body. But Sherlock had led the police to find three more corpses and an iron clad sentence on two white collar workers that would have escaped unscathed if not for his quick mind. It still made John proud to think about it.

He'd still been at Sandhurst at the time of the case, finishing up his final year. After Sherlock left the academy, he moved to London and moped for months, spending enormous sums of money to taxi out to John at any available moment. All holidays and free weekends were devoted to them having exhausting amounts of sex, ordering terribly unhealthy takeaway and generally lazing about, not leaving Sherlock's flat until the minute it was time for John to return. He convinced Sherlock to let him see his sister a few times, but only at the promise to do the shopping while he was out.

Despite any misgivings John might have had about straining their relationship with distance, Sherlock was remarkably single-minded when the mood struck him and it seemed he was dead-set on being unnaturally patient for John. He never pushed him to leave Sandhurst, which John had expected, and he appreciated the enormous self-control Sherlock put towards not being selfish.

John was able to focus on his studies more without Sherlock at Sandhurst, but he missed him every second. He had worried about the effects of boredom on the other boy, if his near constant text messages were anything to go by. John had reluctantly agreed to let Sherlock buy him a new mobile and an unlimited texting contract, which Sherlock abused tremendously.

At some point further in the year after he'd left, Sherlock sent John a text with an attachment, a picture of a stringent morgue. A text swiftly followed – 'I'm at Bart's!'

John had quelled the rising panic – how had he gotten into the morgue? Was he going to be arrested? Certainly he wouldn't be that excited if he was identifying someone he knew. But Sherlock rarely used exclamation marks in his texts, much less in real life, and John texted him back with a cautious, 'oh?'

He had wormed his way into Bart's on a fake ID and procured the ardent affections of an impressionable intern there who eventually introduced him to some lads from the Yard. John had insisted they take the intern out for coffee as a show of good faith and if John had been slightly over hands-y with Sherlock, the other boy had said nothing. The overt display of ownership wasn't really needed with Molly – she thought they were adorable regardless and since that first meeting, she had become a valuable ally to them both. She sent updates on Sherlock's work to John through email, though she really didn't have to. John liked Molly.

Through her connections, Sherlock impressed and barged his way through small puzzles at the yard until he was stuck under a recently instated Detective Sergeant Lestrade. John had never met him, but Sherlock had described him as 'not as much of a idiot as he could be', so he took it to mean he was an outstanding copper. John received even more texts than usual after Sherlock met Lestrade, who seemed to be slowly trusting Sherlock with some more serious cases.

John knew that Sherlock was interested in anatomy and bodies, but he found a changed person when he went to visit on an off weekend. Sherlock opened the door to his flat and did not stop talking about the murder case he was being allowed to help on until it was time for John to leave two days later. John had been delighted. In place of the bored Sherlock who had been increasingly sulky without a direction, he was a live wire, animated – happy.

John had started with his little scrapbooking project of the cases Sherlock worked on, blithely ignoring Sherlock's jabs about his feminine hobbies. He usually shut the other boy up with a kiss and a quiet declaration of how proud he was. When he shipped off with his regiment to Afghanistan five and half months ago, he received a letter after two months with three meticulous clippings in it, no note, and he had laughed.

He chuckles now at the recollection, folding away the parchment carefully and tucking it into his kit. He stands and stretches, sore from a long day's work. It was quiet for his regiment at the moment, but it only gave him more time to think about Sherlock and how long it had been since he'd seen him. During his six months abroad, he had taken his two weeks off back in London only to find Sherlock was on a case in Austria and unlikely to make it home in time to even see John. He had let himself into Sherlock's flat with his spare key, finding it quiet, peaceful and very, very empty. John's not too proud to admit he sat right down on Sherlock's bed and had a little cry about the whole thing.

He moped for a day and then visited his sister, met up with Mike, had a cup of coffee with Molly and in general, soaked up the non-war zone atmosphere of London. He spent an entire day in Hyde Park, just watching people and trying to adjust to the sliver of reverse culture shock he was experiencing.

Sherlock texted him every hour with updates of stakeouts and train chases, while John teased him about being James Bond. He went out and bought a box set of James Bond films after Sherlock said he had no idea what he was talking about. He left it in front of Sherlock's TV before he shipped back.

The following weeks had been filled with emails about each film in the series, with serious discussion about the flaws of lasers and the improbability of the function of Bond's weapons. He forwarded them all to Mike and Molly and was tickled to death when he finally got a 30 minute phone call from Sherlock, who complained the entire time that their correspondence was private. John had shut him up by pointing out that John used military base computers to send his emails – he wasn't sure if his own _thoughts_ were private.

John's stomach growls and he brushes off his trousers, ready to head towards food. He makes it halfway to the mess before he's stopped by a superior officer. He stands at attention while the officer nods in greeting.

“Watson, you're needed on the airfield.”

His face must look confused, as the officer clarifies.

“I'm not sure what it's about. Orders from higher up. You'd better head there straight away.”

They salute and John turns in the opposite direction, towards the fading sunlight. The temperature is dropping and he wishes he had been quicker to get his dinner. He walks as quickly as possible, having no idea what they would need him for at the airfield. Generally, the mechanics and workers there were more than capable of handling any small medical emergencies, and they would have called in more people with more urgency if there was anything seriously wrong.

He reaches the tarmac and pauses, not sure which direction to go in next. He sees a small building, presumably housing airfield administration. In the distance looms the soft-skin hangars. John starts to cross to them, as he assumes that's where he'll be needed.

  
He passes several large aircraft and then a few smaller ones, paying them little attention, before he comes upon a sleek jet that looks out place. He slows slightly to examine it, wondering who the important passenger was to warrant such an expensive vehicle. As his fingers brush a wing, footsteps sound from the other side and John jerks his fingers away, ready to salute if needed.

John knows he was heard and stands still to await whoever is approaching. He pulls his shoulders back in anticipation and watches the nose of the aircraft. When Sherlock rounds the front, John stiffens and locks his knees, but doesn't say a word. Sherlock, in a finely tailored black suit, stands there looking damnably smug, until his expression melts to one of confusion and vague worry as John continues in silence. He searches John's face and tries to take a step closer.

John swings around and tries to breathe.

“John?”

“You better tell me that bloody jet is unlocked.”

Sherlock hesitates, but starts back around the other side of the jet. John follows and watches Sherlock pick nimbly up the steps and pull open the door, gesturing for John to go first. He enters and doesn't look at Sherlock, who radiates quiet, worried tension.

“John, are you --”

“Is there anyone else on board?”

“No.”

“Good.”

John turns to face Sherlock and hooks his boot around the back of the other boy's calf. He spins them and pulls, dropping them to the floor. Sherlock yelps in undignified surprise. John swallows it with a hungry kiss, pulling Sherlock's face to his. Sherlock complies instantly, pushing his tongue against John's lips until they part. They fight for breath until John's kisses turn deeper and he kicks Sherlock's ankles, nudging those long legs apart.

“Why are you here?”

Sherlock doesn't seem to realize he's been asked a question and happily continues kissing him. John bites at his lips and Sherlock bucks beneath him.

“What?”

John starts on his neck and speaks into the corner of Sherlock's jaw.

“What are you doing in the fucking desert?”

“You missed my birthday.”

John huffs a laugh and grips at Sherlock's hips, which won't stop wriggling. He redistributes his weight and gives one solid thrust. The other boy pushes his head back against the floor and shoves back, a smirk in his voice.

“Oh John, you've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?”

In response, John yanks one of Sherlock's thighs up, which he quickly wraps around John's waist. They slot into just the right space to make Sherlock's breath hitch. They move together for a moment more, until John leans forward on one arm, touching noses with Sherlock.

“Answer me.”

“Well, I was rather put out when you were off running around in the sand instead of in our bed when I turned 22.”

John stops moving and Sherlock grunts. He pushes his foot flat and works himself against John in frustration. John dips under him and holds a strong arm in the small of his back, forcing Sherlock into an arch. His curls push against the carpet, his hips closer and allowing him more room to writhe, but John refuses to move. It leaves his arms shaking, but he wants an answer.

He watches Sherlock's mouth fall open and presses his lips to the rapid swallows in his long throat.

“Sherlock.”

The other boy gets a particularly hard grind in and throws his arms around John's neck.

“Mycroft!”

“I'd rather you not yell your brother's name while we're in this position.”

Sherlock gives a breathless little laugh and meets John's gaze.

“I'm here with Mycroft. He's here on some intelligence work and I'm...”

John begins to move as Sherlock answers him and licks his chin when Sherlock's eyes slide shut in pleasure.

  
“I'm here to offer – insight into – ah! – the situation."

“You're his assistant?”

Sherlock finds the strength for a good glare.

“Consultant.”

John hides a smile in Sherlock's shoulder as he removes his arm from underneath him and drops him to the floor again, sliding his fingers down the zip of Sherlock's expensive trousers. He rests his palm there until Sherlock grabs both sides of his head and speaks in one quick sentence.

“I'm here to see you, which you already know, and if you don't hurry up and _get on with what you're doing_ , I'll be forced to finish myself off, start this jet, and leave you behind in spite.”

“You don't know how to fly a jet.”

Sherlock yells through his teeth and unceremoniously makes quick work of John's trouser buttons, shoving his hand inside to grope and grab. John exhales harshly through his nose, but doesn't move his hand. Sherlock whines.

“ _John._ ”

John laughs.

  
“No, I want to see you get your cock out.”

He pushes slowly into Sherlock's fist and drops to whisper in his ear.

“I want to see how hard you are for me.”

Sherlock can't gather the breath to laugh. He puffs weakly against John's neck, amused.

“You've definitely been planning this.”

“Don't ruin my fun, I've had months of lonely wanks to think about it. I will admit the jet is a surprise element.”

He bites Sherlock's ear and removes his hand from his crotch. Sherlock releases John and shoves his pants down enough to pull himself out, giving a few loose strokes. John braces above Sherlock's shoulders and watches, swallowing thickly. It feels like ages since he's seen Sherlock and watching those long fingers wrap around his gorgeous dick is leaving John dizzy.

Sherlock knows what effect he's having and puts on a show, slicking his fingers with a slow slide of his tongue before returning his grip. He starts to go faster, watching John's face.

“You see what you do to me, John? I've gone mad in London without you. I do this every night, thinking about you, sinking my cock into that perfect arse of yours.”

He jerks upwards and smooths the flat of his tongue across John's top lip, licking away the gathering sweat. John groans as if in pain and fumbles with his own pants. He shoves them out of the way and reaches blindly for Sherlock's occupied hand. He pushes his cock next to Sherlock's and twists their fingers together around their combined erections.

He's too hot, sweat pooling in the small of his back, but he'd die before he stopped something as perfect as this. Sherlock's fancy suit looks ruined, but he knows Sherlock feels the same. He can't stop the babbling.

“God, look at you, so fucking gorgeous, so gorgeous, you're just – ah!”

“Gorgeous?”  
  
“And then some. I can't wait until we're in our bed, until I can spread you out for hours.”

Sherlock gives a low whine and kisses John again, their hands speeding up. John's kisses turn desperate and he pulls back to murmur against Sherlock's panting mouth.

“I've missed you. I've missed you so much, Sherlock, every day, every second. I -”

He stiffens and comes so hard he feels his boots sliding across the carpet when he tries to dig his feet into the ground. He stops breathing and goes light-headed as his hips stutter for a few more desperate seconds. His eyes open to find Sherlock limp beneath him, spent, if the mess of their combined fingers is any indicator. Blood stains Sherlock's lips where he bit hard enough to break the skin. He collapses and Sherlock wipes his hands underneath a nearby seat.

“On your brother's carpet? Really?”  
  
“He has a very well-paid cleaning staff.”

John laughs and places a kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, then another. He keeps kissing, until he's frantically planting his lips on any part of the other boy's face he can reach. Sherlock smooths a hand down the nape of his neck, dipping his fingers into the collar of his shirt. He waits for John to calm down.

John eventually lays his forehead against Sherlock's sternum and places his palm above Sherlock's heart. The strong, steady beat soothes him and he lets out a breath he feels like he's been holding for six months.

“I really have missed you.”

“After that enthusiastic display, I'd say that's a massive understatement.”

“After comments like that, I'm not sure _why_ I missed you.”

Sherlock scratches the fingers beneath his collar in a mock reprimand.

“Hopefully you'll like me again after you find out you've been assigned to a security detail for my brother and myself.”

John looks up.

“Security? But I'm a medic.”  
  
“Certainly medical emergencies can happen anywhere and I've convinced Mycroft that he would much rather be safe than sorry if anything were to come up. You'll be with us for the remainder of your tour.”

“Which is only five days.”

“Five days, yes.”

“You flew into a war zone so I could follow you around for five days?”

Sherlock pouts and John grins.

“No, I flew into a war zone, into this baffling heat, because I wanted to bring you _home._ ”

John's grin fades.

“Home.”

“Yes, home. With me.”

John doesn't tell Sherlock that the other boy is synonymous with home anyway. He just feels a great welling up of amazement at his luck in meeting this boy. It must show on his face.

“What?”

John shakes his head.

“I'm just a very lucky soldier.”

“Lucky you haven't run into a landmine yet.”

Sherlock expounds about how many land mines can be crammed into a single kilometer of road and their individual blast radiuses, but John can hear the thread of real worry beneath it. He kisses Sherlock's nose and he stops in surprise.

John pushes himself off the floor and makes a face at the mess between them.

“Neither one of us is going to be very presentable to meet your brother.”

“He would know what happened even if we did clean up. We might as well save ourselves the effort.”  
  
John pulls Sherlock to his feet and tries to smooth out his suit jacket. Sherlock bats his hands away after an indulgent moment.

“Besides, he's already informally been introduced to you by the recording equipment in this jet.”

John pales.

“You mean...”

“Under every seat.”

Color rapidly floods back to John's face and he yanks on Sherlock's belt loop to pull them from the jet, ducking his head in embarrassment even though it's just the two of them.

“Fucking – Jesus – Sherlock!”

Sherlock looks thoughtful as he trails down the steps.

“I don't think I've ever been called that before.”

John rolls his eyes and Sherlock leans over to give a quick peck on the cheek. Easily placated, John turns with a sarcastic remark that dies on his lips. Sherlock's face is relaxed in a soft smile, one that John rarely sees, one he's damn sure no one else sees. If his heart thumps a little faster, he doesn't have to tell anyone about it.

The moment breaks and Sherlock turns to walk back towards the main base.

John follows and he knows he always will.


End file.
